Tooth for a Tooth (20 page)

But he was still missing something.

‘How long did you remain in the flat?’ he asked.

‘Until the end of my course. Then that was that. Back to Wales to find a job and get back together with my old boyfriend.’

‘Thomas?’

‘God, no. I never met Rhys, God rest his soul, until I was well into my thirties. I’m afraid the impulsiveness of youth and looking at the world through beer goggles sent most of them packing.’

‘What about Kelly’s mail?’ he asked. ‘Bank statements, bills, the usual stuff. What did you do with them?’

‘Ripped them up, mostly.’

‘Did you not forward any to her address in the States?’

‘Now that you mention it,’ she said, ‘I do remember sending something back. Just the once. A cheque, I think.’

‘Who from?’

‘How would I know? I didn’t open it.’

‘Was there no return address?’

‘If there was, I never noticed. And if I noticed, I can’t remember.’

Gilchrist made a note to check the boxes in Mrs Roberts’ attic. ‘If anything else comes to mind,’ he said, ‘please give me a call.’ He waited while she rummaged for a pen, then he recited his mobile number and hung up.

Back at his desk, he read through his scribbled notes on Rita, trying to find something that might jump-start his mind, then flicked through those on Kelly’s mother. One word leaped from the page.

Mexico, circled in black pen.

Why Mexico?

In the late sixties, Mexico was not the tourist haven it is now. Back then, it would have been barely ruined by greed-driven developers; a sun-scorched land from which simple people eked out a meagre living, with crystal-clear seas from which fishermen fed their families. Like Spain’s Costa del Sol in the fifties, perhaps.

So, why Mexico?

In the short time Jack had known Kelly, Gilchrist could not once recall him uttering a single word about Mexico. All of Jack’s enthusiasm had been directed towards the States.

Once I get a job, Andy, you can come and visit us. I’ll fly you over. We’ll have picnics on the beach, barbecued steaks as big as your arm and shrimp as big as lobsters. We’ll watch the sun go down on a warm sea, smoke cigarettes and drink beer. You’ll get a tan, and grow muscles. I’ll get you fit. Every morning we’ll run along the beach to a rising sun in a clear blue sky
.

Which was what Jack and Kelly used to do – run along the West Sands, sans sun. No matter how he tried, Gilchrist could not conjure up an image of Jack and Kelly jogging on the beaches in Mexico.

But Kelly’s parents had received a postcard from Mexico.

Which Kelly had not sent. Of that, Gilchrist was certain.

So who had?

If he could answer that question, Gilchrist knew he had found her killer.

CHAPTER 15

Memories came back at him as he stepped into the living room, like family portraits being unveiled one at a time. The fireplace was still there, although the mantelpiece had since been removed. In its place, a wooden shelf with scalloped edges buckled from the weight of books and ornaments that threatened to slip from its surface. A series of black-and-white photographs covered woodchip walls that he recalled being as bare as the West Sands.

He crossed the floor to a rear window that overlooked the back garden. The boundary walls seemed higher than he remembered. The gabled outline of a building that once stood in the corner marked its stonework like a martyr’s memorial. A concrete slab that used to be the floor of an old wash-house lay like a flattened headstone beneath him. Weeds threatened the base of the boundary walls and crept through the early winter grass.

‘When did you say you lived here?’

Gilchrist turned from the window to face Donnie, the owner, an aged gentleman with flyaway hair as wild as Einstein’s, and a strip of a moustache that perched above his lip.

‘I didn’t,’ Gilchrist said. ‘My brother did, in the late sixties.’

Donnie nodded. ‘What did you say the name was?’

‘Jack Gilchrist. He shared the flat with Rita Sanderson and an American girl called Kelly.’

‘Names mean nothing to me now.’

‘Do you remember anything about them? Anything at all?’

‘That’s too far back for me to remember,’ Donnie said. ‘But I suppose I could check my records.’

‘Records?’

‘I used to keep the names and home addresses of every student who rented the place. It started out as a bit of fun,’ he added. ‘But I stopped about ten years ago. I felt like a dirty old man asking all these young students to sign my book.’ He gave out a chuckle that shuffled his shoulders. ‘But I always insisted on their phone numbers.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘If I can find it. It should be somewhere at home.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Glasgow.’

Gilchrist had hoped Donnie lived locally, but Glasgow was seventy miles south-west of St Andrews. He would have to wait for Donnie to mail it to him.

‘How long are you here for?’ he asked Donnie.

‘We’re up for a couple of days. My wife, Kathy, drives. Long drives are too much for me now. Besides,’ he said, eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief, ‘it’s nice to have a designated driver on hand. I don’t have to worry about reaching my limit.’ His shoulders shuffled again, and his grin revealed the even teeth of a dental plate.

‘Do you have anything planned for this evening?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Drinking. Napping. Not necessarily in that order.’

‘Listen, Donnie, it might shed nothing on the investigation, but I’d like to have a look through these records of yours tonight, if possible.’

Donnie frowned. ‘Tonight?’ he puzzled. ‘They’re in the attic somewhere. It’ll take me a day or two just to find them.’

‘If it’s not too much to ask,’ Gilchrist said, ‘I could have someone drive you home, get you started. If you’re lucky you could be back in St Andrews in time for me to buy you a couple in the Central. If I’m out and about, leave them at the office in North Street.’

‘Well,’ said Donnie, as if trying to warm to the idea. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll have to talk to Kathy, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Gilchrist, ‘but before you do, can you show me the back bedroom?’

‘Follow me.’

Gilchrist traipsed after Donnie, out of the living room, down a step, across a short hallway, up another step and through a low doorway that opened on to a room that had memories rampaging back at him.

Little had changed. The room was small, rectangular in shape, with a large sash window that overlooked the back garden. He had stood by that opened window when Jack had lit that first cigarette for him. Tired curtains hung either side of venetian blinds half-opened in disarray. A single bed lined one wall, but not where Jack used to have it. A white wardrobe stood lopsided on the slanted floor. The wooden flooring, which had been covered by a threadbare oriental rug years earlier, now lay hidden beneath a footworn carpet that stretched from skirting board to skirting board.

Gilchrist felt his hopes soar. ‘How long has this carpet been down?’

Donnie frowned. ‘Now you’re asking. Ten, fifteen years, maybe. We don’t spend much on upkeep any more. Used to. But every year’s the same. Place wrecked and needing repainted from top to bottom.’ He shook his head. ‘My father would have skinned me alive if I’d done half of what these youngsters get up to nowadays.’

Gilchrist eased the wardrobe door open to reveal blouses on hangers, folded sweaters, pressed jeans, scuffed boots on shelves. ‘Someone’s staying here?’

‘They’re away for the weekend.’

‘Perfect,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I’ll arrange for the SOCOs to complete their investigation before they return.’

Doubt flickered behind the old man’s eyes.

‘That’s not a problem, is it?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘SOCOs?’

‘Scenes of Crime Officers. Forensic investigators. We’re investigating a suspected murder.’

‘Murder? Here? In this room?’

Gilchrist did not want to tell Donnie that if nothing was found in this bedroom the team would extend their search to other rooms, take over the entire house if they had to, until they found evidence of Kelly’s murder, or not. ‘Now, about that guest book of yours . . .’

‘The less Kathy knows about this, the better,’ Donnie said. ‘I’ll talk to her later.’

‘Won’t she worry about where you’ll be?’

‘She’ll think I’m having a couple of drams,’ said Donnie, and wiped an arthritic hand over his mouth. ‘After what you’ve just told me, I could do with a double right now.’

‘How about later?’ Gilchrist said.

Donnie glanced at his watch, as if to figure out how to pace himself.

‘And they’re on me,’ Gilchrist added. ‘All right?’

That seemed to make up Donnie’s mind. ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he said, and trundled down the stairs as Gilchrist followed.

Fifteen minutes later, Donnie was on his way to Glasgow, courtesy of Stan, and the SOCOs had the bedroom stripped of furniture, the carpet and underfelt rolled up and all of it carted through to the living room.

Even after thirty-five years, the shadow of where the oriental rug used to lay still showed on the floorboards as a fresher stain. The floor had been varnished at some time in its past, not long before the rug had been placed, Gilchrist thought, but the flooring beneath the rug had retained some of its polished sheen.

The SOCOs hung a thick sheet over the window. The room fell into darkness. They sprayed the floor with Luminol, a chemical that reacts with iron found in blood haemoglobin. It would not matter how old the blood was. If any blood was present, Luminol would glow in the dark.

Gilchrist watched them work around the area of the invisible rug, all the while toying with the thought that they were looking in the wrong place. When the black light clicked on, nothing showed up.

‘Would it help if someone told you where the bed used to be?’ Gilchrist asked.

Colin, the lead SOCO, looked at him. ‘You’ve been in this room?’

‘My brother used to rent it.’

Colin seemed to liven. ‘Can you tell me where the bed was, exactly?’

‘Over there. By that wall.’ Which was closer to the door, and an image of Rita’s boyfriend bursting into the room and vomiting all over it burst into Gilchrist’s mind. Why else would the sheets be stripped? As he stared at where the bed once lay, an image of the murder weapon shimmered into view; Jack’s bedside lamp, an ugly metal thing that stood erect like a ship’s decanter, its base wide and round and blunt, perfect for crushing skulls—

‘And you think that whatever happened took place on the bed?’

‘That’s my first thought,’ he agreed.

Silent, Gilchrist watched the SOCOs continue their search, spraying the floorboards where the bed used to sit, extending their investigation from one end of the room to the other.

Again, the black light. Again, nothing.

The room was spotless . . . like she’d scrubbed it clean
.

Back in the late sixties, forensic science was still in its relative infancy. Whoever tried to destroy evidence could never have known of the advances that would be made in the coming years. Or could they? Geoffrey Pennycuick with his knowledge of medicine jumped to the forefront.

‘Here’s something, sir.’

Gilchrist kneeled on the floor. Colin pointed a gloved finger at a few smudged spots, glowing luminescent green on the wooden flooring.

‘It’s not a lot, sir.’

‘What do you think?’ Gilchrist tried.

Colin shook his head. ‘Could have come from a cut foot. Maybe a nosebleed. How did you say she was killed?’

‘A blow to the side of the head, powerful enough to crush her skull.’

‘That would suggest more bleeding than this.’

Gilchrist stood. He felt helpless, disappointed, so let down by his instincts that he wondered why he had even thought of performing such an investigation.

‘Could it be the same bed, sir?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m thinking of the mattress we moved. Could it be the same one?’

Gilchrist felt a surge of annoyance. He had not asked Donnie. Was it possible, after all these years, that this was the same bed Jack and Kelly had slept in? Despite being a single bed, students made do with what they were given.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ was all he could say.

‘We’ve nothing to lose, so let’s try it, shall we?’

Rather than hang another sheet over the large window in the living room, the SOCOs carried the mattress back through to the darkness of the bedroom and rested it against the wall. When they sprayed Luminol over it, the black light picked up a mass of spots and stains. But Gilchrist could tell from their location that most were due to menstruation leaks, or breaking maidenheads. Nothing showed up at either end of the mattress, where he would have expected to find Kelly’s blood. Again, doubts seared his mind like shame.

‘Right,’ said Colin, ‘let’s try the other side.’ With a combined heave, they flipped the mattress over. Again, the middle of the mattress was an overwhelming mass of stains, but with none that would suggest anything more than a menstruation accident.