Tooth for a Tooth (17 page)

‘You used to own an MGB GT,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Still do.’ Fairclough nodded to the rusting hulk. ‘Want to buy it? I’ll give you a good deal.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But you had one before that?’

‘I’ve owned a ton of cars. So?’

‘A late-sixties model. G reg.’

‘Could have.’

‘Blaze ring a bell?’

‘Don’t hear a thing.’

Gilchrist waited. Stan had given him the registration number he downloaded from DVLA’s records in Swansea, but Gilchrist did not want to give that out to Fairclough. Not just yet. DVLA had no record of Fairclough’s MGB after ’76, the last owner’s address being somewhere in Stirling, which had him thinking the car had been scrapped.

‘Alsatian, was it?’

‘What?’

‘The dog you hit.’

A tic flickered in Fairclough’s right eyelid. ‘What dog?’ he tried.

‘St Andrews.’

‘Not been there for yonks.’ Fairclough stepped closer, almost filling the doorway with his clatty bulk. ‘What’s this about, anyways? Dog? What fuckin’ dog?’

‘MSN 318G?’ Gilchrist caught the flicker of recognition at the registration number.

‘What?’

‘The registration number of your blaze-coloured MGB GT.’

‘If you know the number, what the fuck’re you asking me for?’

‘Because you killed someone in St Andrews while driving that car. You were drunk at the time, so I have to assume it was an accident. But you didn’t report it. That was your mistake—’

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ said Fairclough. ‘I’m going to go inside and have myself a nice cup of tea. Then I’m going to call my solicitor and tell him that some skinny prick in a leather jacket has been slandering my name about, and how much do you think I should sue him for?’ Fairclough tried to smile, but his mouth failed to work the way it should.

‘You do that,’ said Gilchrist. ‘And when you’re at it, tell him my name. Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.’ He tried to take some pleasure from watching Fairclough’s face pale, but inside he struggled against the almost overpowering urge to pull him from his house and handcuff him face-down on the front lawn. He had no doubts now about Gina Belli’s psychic abilities. However she had done it, here was the man who had left his brother dying in the rain-soaked streets of St Andrews, who had driven off without offering help, or calling for an ambulance. How could he now prove Fairclough had done it? Which left him puzzling over his decision to confront him. What had he expected Fairclough to do? Confess?

Gilchrist moved closer. Inches separated them. The stench of bad gums had him holding his breath. ‘Gilchrist,’ he repeated. ‘You know the name because you’ve never forgotten. I can see it in your eyes.’

Fairclough’s throat bobbed. ‘What the fuck’re you on about?’

‘Jack Gilchrist was the name of the man you killed. He was almost eighteen when you ran him over, and drove off to leave him dying in the gutter.’

‘Why don’t you go play on the railway?’ Fairclough stepped back to close the door.

‘I’ve spoken to Linda.’

Fairclough’s eyes flared for a moment, then disappeared as the door slammed shut.

Gilchrist stood on the step for a full minute, his breath fogging the cold air. For one absurd moment he toyed with the idea of kicking the door down and dragging Fairclough to the local police station in handcuffs. Instead, he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and retraced his steps to his Merc. He made a point of not looking back, even though he knew Fairclough would be following his retreat from behind dirt-laden windows. By the time he switched on the ignition, an idea had come to him. He caught Stan on his mobile, and from the background chatter guessed he was having a pint.

‘Let me guess,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The Central?’

‘Le Provençal.’

It was on College Street, almost next door to the Central, a basement restaurant that Stan often used to obtain information from less honest locals.

‘Anyone I know?’ Stan’s rushing breath told Gilchrist that he was bustling from the restaurant for some privacy.

‘Wee Jimmy,’ Stan said at length.

Wee Jimmy Carslaw. Five-foot nothing and fingers as quick as a snake strike. In and out of your pocket with a touch as light as the wind. Many an innocent tourist had lost more than a few bob to Jimmy’s fingers. ‘What’s he been up to?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Just helping out, boss. Keeping him honest.’

Gilchrist accelerated on to the M8. The Merc eased into fast-flowing traffic with barely a murmur. ‘I need you to chase something down for me, Stan.’

‘Shoot, boss.’

‘That MGB we talked about earlier,’ he said. ‘Can you get Nance to pay the last-known owner a visit as soon as she can?’

‘What’s the rush?’ Stan asked.

What could he tell him? That he had an idea, a passing thought? That this is the car that killed my brother, and I was wondering, if it hadn’t been scrapped, was any of his DNA still on it? As he played it through his mind, he realized he was not only clawing at straws, he was making them up.

‘It’s a long shot, Stan. I don’t even know if the car’s still around.’

‘Leave it with me, boss.’

Gilchrist was about to hang up when Stan said, ‘Got a facial on the skeleton.’

True to her word, Dr Heather Black had given Gilchrist’s request top priority.

‘Any matches?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. It’s just come in. We’re working on it. But I’ll tell you what, boss. Someone must know her.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘She’s a beauty. Can’t imagine her not having a string of boyfriends.’

Gilchrist pondered Stan’s words. Maybe that had been the girl’s downfall. Maybe one of her boyfriends suspected she was playing the field, and jealousy took hold. Maybe she had tried to break up their relationship and a violent argument followed. Or maybe she had been sexually assaulted and was murdered trying to defend herself.

He mulled those thoughts in his mind, trying to work a different angle. But no matter how he worked it, he knew the key to identifying the young woman was to put the computer image on the national news. Someone might recognize her.

If so, that could break the case wide open.

‘Get it over to Conway at the Beeb,’ he ordered, ‘and ask her to put it out on all news channels this afternoon.’

CHAPTER 13

Gilchrist felt his breath catch.

Stan had been correct. The murdered woman had indeed been beautiful.

He gripped the back of the chair, held on tight, tried to still the thick pounding in his chest as he stared hard at the screen.

Dr Heather Black had created a remarkable likeness, but the eyes were not quite right. Gilchrist remembered them being larger, and a darker shade of blue than the sky blue Dr Black had coloured them. Her hair, too, was wrong. Where Dr Black had it long and straight and blonde, the popular style in the sixties, Kelly had worn hers short. He also remembered her teeth being perfect, the whitest he had ever seen. American dentistry could do that. And the tiniest of scars on her chin was not there, although in all fairness to Dr Black, she could never have known.

He brushed his fingers across the monitor.

‘What d’you think, boss?’

He had carried her skull, lifted it with his bare hands, held it close to his face, trying to develop a feel for the young woman behind it, never knowing that—

‘Boss?’

Gilchrist tilted his head to Stan, but he could not peel his gaze from her eyes.

‘You all right, boss?’

‘Kelly Roberts.’

Stan looked to the screen, then back at Gilchrist. ‘You know her?’

Gilchrist let out a rush of breath. ‘She used to go out with my brother Jack.’

Stan pulled a hand over his mouth, down on to his chin. ‘Shit.’

‘They split up not long before Jack was killed.’

Stan frowned. ‘I’m sorry, boss. I never knew your brother had . . .’

Gilchrist nodded. ‘I never saw her again. Now I know why.’

Stan pulled out his notebook. ‘What was she like? As a person, I mean.’

‘Friendly. Vivacious. Confident. She was American. A student at St Andrews University.’ He eyed the screen again. ‘She worked part-time in Lafferty’s, The Criterion back then, which was where he went for his underage drinking. He said she fell in love with St Andrews on one of her father’s golfing trips.’

‘Were her parents alive back then?’

‘I’ve no idea. But Jack never said they weren’t.’

‘Any reason why he would keep it from you if they were dead?’

Gilchrist shrugged. ‘None that I know of.’

‘So why didn’t they report her missing?’

‘Maybe they did. But in the States.’

Stan scribbled in his notebook.

‘The relationship was serious,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Jack once told me she was special.’

At that, Stan faced the screen, raised his eyebrows.

‘He used to bring her round to our home on Friday nights,’ Gilchrist pressed on, ‘before they went out to the cinema. I was twelve, Jack was seventeen, but mature way beyond his years. When he first introduced Kelly to our parents, I remember our old man couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs.’ Gilchrist shook his head at the memory. ‘Back then, the girls used to wear skirts as short as wide belts.’ He nodded as another memory came back to him. ‘And she never wore jewellery, Stan. I remember that, too. Only a watch.’

‘No watch was found, boss.’

‘Taken off and thrown away,’ Gilchrist said. He studied the screen, thought her image no longer looked as familiar, as if she had morphed to a sister lookalike. The shape of her mouth seemed wrong to him now, tighter where he recalled her lips being fuller. Her cheeks, too, more rounded where they should have been sculpted. But if he narrowed his eyes, let the image fade out of focus, her likeness returned to the beautiful woman his brother Jack had called
special
.

‘See if you can dig up her records from uni,’ he said to Stan. ‘That should give us her home address. If her parents are still alive, I’d like to talk to them.’

Gilchrist had just taken a sip of his Eighty when Gina Belli said, ‘A man of habit, I see.’

Defeated, he gestured to the seat opposite. ‘Why don’t you join me?’

She did, lighting up another Marlboro before nodding to his plate of bridie, chips and beans. ‘That’s bad for your cholesterol.’

‘It tastes good.’ He spread his palms. ‘Would you like some?’

‘I don’t do lunch.’

He eyed her through a fog. ‘They say the smoking ban will soon be passed into law.’

‘That’ll do wonders for morale.’ She tossed her head, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth. ‘I spoke to Linda Melrose,’ she said. ‘She seemed upset.’

‘She should be. She’s remained silent for thirty-five years about a murder to which she was the only witness.’

‘Will she cooperate?’

‘Eventually.’

Gina nodded, took another pull. ‘And Fairclough? Did you find him?’

He noticed a tremor in her fingers, the tiniest of shakes, as if the nicotine had not yet worked through her nervous system. Or maybe her psychic reputation was at stake. Or her bestselling status. ‘Different animal altogether,’ he said.

‘Did he deny it?’

‘All knowledge.’

‘Do you think he’s the one?’

‘I’m working on it,’ he said, then added: ‘Before I forget. Do you have Jack’s lighter with you?’

‘It’s in the hotel room.’

‘Have you mentioned what I told you about the nicks?’

She took another draw, blew it out with a gush. ‘Give me some credit, for crying out loud.’

‘I take it that’s a no.’

She scowled at him.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’

She took another draw, which seemed to kill her anger. ‘Be careful, Andy.’

He eyed her over a mouthful of beer.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘I’m getting bad feelings about this.’

He returned his pint to the table. ‘Voices in your head again?’

She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray, as if trying to grind it through the glass. Then she pushed her chair back, and stood. ‘You know, you can be a real bastard at times,’ she hissed, then strode from the bar.

No sooner had she left when a voice to his side said, ‘I see you haven’t lost your charm with women.’

DI ‘Tosh’ MacIntosh stood at the bar, no more than four feet from the back of Gina’s chair. How long had he been there? But, more worrying, had he overheard any of his conversation with Gina?

Gilchrist tilted his pint. ‘Up yours,’ he said to Tosh, and took a sip.

‘Not going to ask me to join you?’

‘Just leaving.’

‘I’d buy you a pint, Gilchrist, but I might have to piss in it first.’

Gilchrist pushed from the table and, without a word, walked from the bar.