It took me six weeks to find Lillian Andrews. Not that that was what she was calling herself. As I had expected, the trail had been difficult to pick up. But I did pick it up. I would have found her earlier if I’d not had to keep such a low profile. But as Mr Morrison had pointed out, I’m a natural stalker. Lillian had moved south, to England. The accent had changed as had the appearance, this time without the benefit of plastic surgery. But it’s amazing what hair dye and a change of wardrobe can do. I established her movements and kept a detailed log. After a week I drove all the way back to Scotland without stopping.
So now I’m standing in the rain in a churchyard looking down at a grave. Whose grave? That I don’t know because the name has been abraded by Scotland’s corrosive climate. And anyway, it doesn’t matter: it’s not the occupant of the grave who interests me, you see. Instead I reach down and ease up a broken corner of stone and take out the tobacco tin hidden beneath it. I place a piece of paper in the tin and replace it under the stone. I turn my back to Kirk o’ Shotts and head back into the valley.
What’s on the piece of paper I have left behind? Just the number of the Horsehead Bar and the day and time I can be reached there. Mr Morrison will know who to ask for. And I still have the cash I found beneath Tam McGahern’s bathtub.
Funny thing is, I always considered myself too cynical to go in for revenge.