Tooth for a Tooth (13 page)

‘No you didn’t.’

He almost laughed. ‘Those diaries were destroyed years ago.’

‘No, they weren’t.’

He frowned. He had kept the diaries for years, even after he married, forgotten them, then discovered them brown-paged and dusty in the attic when he sold the matrimonial home after Gail moved to Glasgow. Then it struck him. Gina must have spoken to Gail. But Gail had been ill for months. ‘So when did you speak to my ex-wife?’ he asked.

Another draw that pinched her cheeks to the shape of her skull. She crossed her legs, giving Gilchrist a flash of white knickers, then turned her head and exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘About six months ago.’

Gilchrist frowned. What else did she know about him?

‘Here’s what I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘Your exclusive authorization to write your story.’

‘A biography, you mean.’

‘More than just your run-of-the-mill biography. I want a detailed account of how you solved your most famous cases. I want you to tell me about this sixth sense of yours—’

‘There’s nothing magical about it,’ he complained. ‘It’s just logical deduction.’

‘That’s not how I hear it.’ She drew on her Marlboro, chinned her shoulder and blew it out. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I know all about sixth senses. And then some.’

Gilchrist took a sip of beer, not liking the subject.

‘And I want sight of all your diaries,’ she pressed on. ‘In return, we split all royalties fifty-fifty. I’ll have my publisher draw up a contract for your solicitor. Once everyone’s happy, we sign. Then we talk, and I start to write.’ She leaned on the table. ‘Sound fair?’

Gilchrist glared back at her, resisting the urge to push his pint away and leave. He could almost make out his reflection in the dark pools of her eyes, just about see his puzzled frown work its way across his forehead. He looked away from her, stared at his pint, picked it up, put it down. Then he held her gaze again.

‘Problem?’ she asked.

He had never understood how his thought processes worked, this gut-driven feeling that twisted his insides and forced his logic down one path to reach its conclusion at the expense of all others. Perhaps it was her persistence over his brother’s accident, or the way her hands moved or her fingers shifted when she clicked her diamond-studded lighter. But something had triggered his thoughts, worked away at some level deep in the chasms of his mind, almost out of reach of all conscious logic.

He flipped open his mobile, pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, half aware of the victory smile on her face, as if she knew what he was thinking.

But how could she? How could anyone?

As he waited for his call to be answered, he walked to the centre of Market Street, breathed in the cold October night, all of a sudden conscious of the heavy pounding in his chest. His convoluted logic had come up with a ridiculous conclusion. He was wrong. He had to be.

But he needed to make sure.

‘Mackie speaking.’

‘Bert,’ snapped Gilchrist. ‘The lighter. Do you still have it?’

‘What’s got you fired—’

‘Bert. Please. Have you?’

‘Hold on.’

Gilchrist took a deep breath, then let it out in a long release, trying to slow the chatter of his heart. He paced the cobbles in the middle of the road, then faced the Central, the lights from within a warm contrast to the frost in the air, his breath fogging in the cold like steam.

‘I’ve got it,’ grumbled Mackie. ‘What about it?’

Gilchrist looked to the sky, gave a silent prayer. ‘On the bottom,’ he said. ‘On the edge. Is it nicked?’

‘Nicked?’

‘Yes. Nicked.’ He could think of no other word. He pressed his mobile to his ear, could almost hear Mackie study the lighter with his magnifying glass. He stepped out of the way of a passing car and returned to the bar entrance. He reached out, gripped the door frame. Just in case.

‘Yes,’ said Mackie. ‘It is.’

‘How many?’

‘Looks like three.’

‘All on the same edge?’

‘One on one edge, and two on the opposite edge.’

Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. He hung up. How was it possible? He looked around him, as if searching for the answer in the night shadows.

JG. Not Geoffrey Pennycuick. Not Jeanette Grant.

Three nicks. Two on one edge, one on the other. Conclusive. Unarguable.

JG.

The lighter was his brother’s.

CHAPTER 9

‘Don’t tell Mum and Dad.’

‘This is our secret, Andy. Just you and me.’

Gilchrist’s fingers trembled as he eased his cigarette into the flame
.

‘Now suck in.’

The heat from the lighter seemed to fire his mouth, and he almost let go
.

‘Now take a deep breath,’ Jack said. ‘Hold it. Then puff it out.’

Gilchrist inhaled as he was told, felt dizziness surge through him, watched his brother’s face shift and shimmer. Then he let it out, but could not hold back a cough
.

‘Feel good?’

‘I think so.’

‘Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.’

Gilchrist sat back, holding the cigarette deep between his index and middle finger, his hand clasped over his mouth. He took another draw and exhaled through his nose, just the way Jack did
.

‘Here,’ said Jack, handing him the lighter
.

The silver lighter gleamed as good as new, except . .
.

‘It’s scratched,’ said Gilchrist
.

Jack nodded, blew smoke from his nostrils. ‘Two nicks. One for me and one for my girlfriend.’ He took a quick draw, pouted it out
.

‘Do you like your girlfriend?’

‘She’s special.’

‘Will you get married?’

Jack retrieved his lighter and removed a penknife from his back pocket. He snapped the blade open, gouged another nick on the lighter’s edge. ‘That one’s for you, Andy. You’re special, too.’ He handed the lighter back
.

Gilchrist rubbed his finger over the fresh scratch, then said, ‘So, will you?’

Jack inhaled, long and deep, held his breath, as if the answer to the question was being formed through the molecules in his lungs. Then he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes as he looked at the bedroom ceiling and exhaled in one long, steady stream
.

‘One day,’ he said
.

By the time Gilchrist returned to the bar his mind had already fired a fusillade of questions at him, the most worrying being, how had Jack’s lighter found its way into the woman’s grave? Was Jack in any way involved in her murder? That thought alone had a cold sweat tickling Gilchrist’s neck. But only he knew the nicks could place the lighter with his brother, and he made a pact to keep that to himself. At least for the time being. He could be wrong. There could be some simple explanation. But he found he could give it no further thought, for one other possibility had his mind spinning. Was it possible? Or was he being absurd? After all these years, could he now have a lead to his brother’s hit-and-run driver? And did his ridiculous thoughts on his immediate course of action make any sense?

He picked up his pint, downed it in one.

‘Thirsty all of a sudden,’ Gina said.

‘Let’s go.’

She caught up with him as he was stabbing the key into the Merc’s ignition.

‘Whoa there, big boy,’ she said, folding herself into the passenger seat, showing more tanned cleavage and muscled thigh than could be considered decent.

Gilchrist snapped into Drive, floored the accelerator.

The Merc twitched as it powered forward.

‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’ She removed the Marlboro from her handbag.

Gilchrist snatched the packet from her, stuffed it back into her bag. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said. ‘About the book. I’ll agree to it, on one condition. That you tell me the truth.’

‘Not even one teeny-weeny white lie?’

He glared at her, annoyed that she would choose that moment to try to joke.

‘You’re serious?’

Gilchrist gripped the steering wheel, tightened his fingers until his knuckles whitened. ‘I can drop you at your hotel if you’d like. Your choice.’

She held up both hands in mock surrender. ‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’

Gilchrist jerked the wheel and overtook two cars, returning to the safety of the inside lane to the angry blare of a passing horn.

‘Of course, the truth doesn’t matter a damn if we’re both wrapped around a tree,’ she said, slapping both hands on the dashboard as Gilchrist pulled in hard behind a Transit van. ‘Either you slow down, or I’m going to have a cigarette. And
that’s
the truth.’

Gilchrist eased his foot from the pedal, let some distance grow between his Merc and the Transit van. Gina was right, of course. After all these years, what was the point of rushing?

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s have it. And I promise to tell you the
truth
.’

He did not like her emphasis, as if she was mocking him. ‘Just how good a psychic are you?’ he asked, and found himself driving on in a heavy silence that had him thinking the truth was about to catch her out. Hedgerows, trees, walled fields, all passed by in blurred silence. Corners came and went. And still no response.

He kept his speed at a steady fifty, determined to wait her out.

‘I believe in what I receive,’ she finally said.

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘How can I answer?’ she said, then added, ‘Truthfully.’

‘I thought the question was straightforward.’

‘That shows how much you don’t know.’ She faced him. ‘I need a cigarette to think straight.’

He depressed a button on the console and her window lowered. He stopped it halfway. ‘Start thinking straight,’ he said. ‘And flick your ash outside.’

She tutted as she dug into her handbag, and a few moments later exhaled out the window. ‘I can’t explain the unexplainable,’ she said. ‘I can only tell you what I see, feel, or even hear.’ She took another draw. ‘After that, it’s all up to you. Maybe I should ask, How good are
you
at using the unexplainable? How far do you want to push when no one else believes you? How many resources do you want to use at the ridicule of others? That’s what happens. You either believe in what I tell you, or you don’t. But you’ll find most people don’t.’ She sucked in hard. In the dark of the car her cigarette glowed red.

Gilchrist gritted his teeth. A few minutes earlier his plan had seemed unequivocal and clear. Now he was not so sure. ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ he pressed.

She took another draw, this time facing him as she exhaled. ‘The best.’

The rust on the cigarette lighter had been descaled in places, the silver plating long corroded. Gilchrist remembered it looking as expensive as solid silver to his twelve-year-old eyes, shiny and gleaming, its perfection marred only by three nicks on its base. He ran his fingers over them, and an image of Jack cupping the lighter in his hands hit him with such clarity that he had to close his eyes.

‘Care to share your thoughts?’ Mackie said.

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know, Bert.’ He handed the lighter to Gina Belli, watched her finger it. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be so goddamned dumb. It’s nothing like that.’ She turned the lighter over, touched the nicks he had described to her on the drive to Dundee. ‘I’d like to have a look at the cold-case files again.’

‘You’ve seen them before?’

‘When I thought I was going to need something to persuade you to let me do your biography.’

Mackie said, ‘Would someone care to tell me what’s going on?’

Gilchrist took Gina by the arm. ‘I’m about to find out,’ he said, and led her from the room.

Back behind the wheel, Gilchrist said, ‘How did you get access to the cold-case files?’ But even as that question aired, he saw that with her high-profile police contacts in the States, she could probably gain access to cold-case files anywhere in the world. Even if you thought it was nothing more than witchcraft, what harm would it do to let a psychic with an impressive record sift through your local cold-case files?

As if in tune, she said, ‘It’s amazing what a simple telephone call can do.’

‘Why do you need to see the files again?’

‘I now have something that belonged to your brother,’ she said. ‘It could make all the difference.’

‘I can’t get hold of them tonight.’

She shook her head. ‘How about tomorrow?’

Tomorrow? Tomorrow was too long. He needed to know tonight, right now. He struggled with the rationale. This psychic business made no sense. Everyone knew that. It was nothing more than a hoax, a scam, a way to make money at the expense of others. But he still needed to push as far as he could. He did not have the cold-case files. Not tonight. But having come this far, what did he have to lose by going one step further?