Free Eye for an Eye by Frank Muir Page A

backs of the sofa and chairs like oversized antimacassars. More hung on the walls, unframed canvases of reds, greens, yellows, blues.
    In the kitchen a television sat on the countertop, its volume muted. A reporter mouthed to him from St Andrews harbour then slipped from view as the camera panned the length of the pier.
    ‘Tea?’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Do you mind if I have a cup?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    She filled a kettle. The water drilled into it, as if to emphasize her displeasure at his presence. The kitchen window was ajar and looked onto a tiny garden area that ended at a stone wall. A black-and-white cat sat on the window sill, as if deciding whether to enter or stay outside.
    ‘What’s his name?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘The cat.’
    ‘Pitter.’
    ‘Peter?’
    ‘No.
Pitter
.’
    Sun burst onto the back garden, and Pitter’s eyes closed.
    ‘That’s an unusual name.’
    ‘That’s what I thought.’
    ‘You didn’t name him, then?’
    ‘He’s a she, and I inherited her from a friend.’
    ‘You live alone?’
    ‘Is this it?’
    ‘Is this what?’
    ‘The interrogation.’
    He gave her a small smile. ‘You could say.’
    ‘Well, in that case, yes, I live alone. I’m not married. Never have. Never will. Don’t have any children. And don’t want any, God forbid. Just a cat. That’s enough trouble, thank you very much. You’ve already been introduced to her. I’ve lived here for two years. Moved up from London. And before that, Tadcaster, Yorkshire. Don’t have a mortgage and design websites for a living. Don’t charge much, so it’s not much of a living. But I’m happy.’ She pulled open the fridge door and a waft of cool air brushed his legs. He moved to the side. ‘Except, this bloody kitchen’s too small.’ She pressed a can of apricots under an electric can opener. ‘Anything else you’d like to know?’
    He watched her shove a teaspoonful of bright orange fruit into her mouth. ‘Were you at home last night?’ he asked.
    She nodded. Another spoon-load.
    ‘Alone?’
    ‘Uh-huh.’ Juice dribbled from her lips and she turned to the sink, grabbed a paper towel and dabbed her chin. She loaded up the spoon again, held it out to him. ‘Want to try some? They’re delicious.’
    ‘No thanks.’
    Something tinkled and he turned as Pitter padded onto a folded tea-towel by the edge of the steel sink and sat down.
    ‘She sees the tin. Thinks she’s going to be fed.’
    Gilchrist smiled. ‘Friendly?’
    ‘Very.’
    He reached out and stroked the top of Pitter’s head, worked his fingers down and under her chin. He felt her throat vibrate with delight.
    ‘Keep that up and you’ll have a friend for life.’
    He scratched some more. ‘Why Pitter?’
    ‘Pitter patter. She was one of two.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘A friend has the other one.’
    ‘The friend who gave you Pitter?’
    ‘Uh-huh.’ She opened the cupboard door under the sink and dropped the emptied can of apricots into a plastic bag. Then she dabbed her lips with the paper towel and dropped that into the plastic bag, too.
    ‘Boyfriend?’
    ‘You’re joking.’
    Garvie’s blond hair, short at the back and sides, was spiky on the top. Perspiration darkened it at the neck and ears.
    ‘You keep yourself fit.’
    She nodded. ‘I was exercising when you knocked.’
    ‘Exercise a lot, do you?’
    ‘Try to. No more than a couple of hours a day, though.’
    ‘That’s a couple of hours more than most people.’
    ‘Still not enough.’
    ‘And at night?’ he said. ‘Do any exercises then?’
    ‘Rarely.’
    ‘How about last night?’
    She shook her head and reached for a teapot. ‘Sure I can’t talk you into a cuppa?’
    ‘Positive.’ He eyed the coloured rugs in the lounge. ‘Travel a lot?’
    ‘Used to. In my last job.’
    ‘Which was?’
    ‘Chartered accountant.’ She smiled. ‘God, I hated it.’
    ‘Doesn’t it pay well?’
    ‘Money’s not everything. But it paid for this