Free Eye for an Eye by Frank Muir Page B

place.’
    ‘Why give it up?’
    She shrugged. One hand held a mug, World’s Greatest Lover printed on the side. The other, a ceramic teapot. ‘I couldn’t stand the sexual innuendo,’ she said, and tipped the teapot. A stream of golden brown tea steamed into the mug. ‘It’s different for a man. Men get laid. Women get fucked. But what do I care?’ she added. ‘I’m gay.’
    He was not altogether surprised by her bluntness. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Patter must stay with your partner?’
    ‘I’d heard you were good.’
    ‘That’s an odd thing to say.’
    ‘St Andrews is a small town, Inspector. And you’re the small-town hero.’
    ‘We all have our crosses to bear.’
    ‘And your reputation precedes you.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘You always get your man.’
    Or woman, he thought.
    ‘Besides, I’ve seen you about.’
    ‘In the pub, no doubt.’
    ‘And on the telly.’ The sinews of her neck stood out like rods of flesh as she turned to the window.
    The strength of her physical attraction unsettled him.
    ‘No one likes us,’ she said. ‘Gays, that is. No one likes to have us living next door.’
    MacMillan’s words came back to him.
I dinnae think I could stand the looks.
    ‘Ever been called a witch?’ he asked.
    She laughed without humour. ‘You must have been talking to young Ian next door.’
    ‘Why would he call you a witch?’
    ‘It’s not Ian. He’s a nice lad. But some of his pals tried to pick me up in the pub about three months ago. It started out as a bit of fun, then got out of hand. The bar staff had to call the police. Surprised you don’t know about it.’
    ‘I don’t know everything that goes on.’
    ‘That’s not what I heard.’
    Gilchrist ignored the compliment. ‘So what did you do last night?’
    ‘Stayed in. Ate a carryout Chinkie. Drank a few glasses of wine. Watched
Runaway Bride
for the nth time. Then crashed out at half-ten.’
    ‘That’s early.’
    ‘I need my beauty sleep.’
    ‘Did you hear anything? See anything?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’m on medication. I don’t sleep well. Popped a couple of pills last night, and that was that. Out like a light. On top of the wine, I wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off in the kitchen.’
    ‘I see. So you wouldn’t have been out in the back garden last night after midnight?’
    ‘No, of course not. Why?’
    ‘Does anyone else have a key to your house?’
    She shook her head.
    Gilchrist moved to the back door by the side of the sink and asked, ‘Mind if I look outside?’
    ‘If you don’t mind long grass. It’s not been cut since the summer. Gardening’s not my forte. As you will soon see.’
    Gilchrist twisted the key, felt the old-fashioned lock turn over. He opened the door.
    The grass lay flattened by rain. A worn trail from the window to the corner of the wall defined Pitter’s route. A few slabs formed a pathway to a concrete coal bunker. Overhead, a lone seagull wheeled, and he followed its flight toward the sea. He heard the rush of waves over rocks.
    Or maybe it was just the wind.
    He looked up at the roof. He could not see Ian’s bedroom window, and took three steps back before he caught the tip of a dormer.
    ‘I see you still have a coal fire,’ he said.
    ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
    ‘Do you light it often?’
    ‘Not in the summer. In winter I have it on every night.’
    ‘Did you have it on last night?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Was it still burning when you went to bed?’
    ‘Yes. Why?’
    ‘Just asking.’
    ‘I have a fireguard,’ she protested. ‘The fire was low.’
    He lifted the bunker lid and peered inside. It was half-full of coal. ‘What do you burn?’
    ‘Coal. What else?’
    The bite in her voice surprised him. ‘Logs,’ he offered.
    She said nothing as he leaned over the edge of the bunker, then straightened. He closed the lid.
    ‘You don’t burn logs then?’
    ‘No.’
    He brushed past her, through to the lounge. ‘You burn any wood at all?’ he asked, and kneeled