Tooth for a Tooth (24 page)

‘Was he a local?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘A student?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘What height was he?’

‘I’m no good with heights.’

‘Small, medium, large?’

‘Medium.’

‘Less than six foot?’

‘Definitely.’

Gilchrist paused. ‘So he was more small than tall,’ he confirmed. ‘Fat?’

‘No. Skinny. Like her.’

Gilchrist ran through his notes. He was looking for a skinny, medium-built Scotsman, scruffy, with light brown hair. He might as well look for a sheep in a white flock—

‘There is one more thing I remember,’ she said. ‘He had bad teeth.’

‘In what way?’

‘It was really noticeable, especially when they were together. Lorena had such white teeth, and his were so yellow.’

‘Any missing?’

‘No. Just yellow.’

‘Crooked? Buck-toothed?’

‘No. Just normal.’

They talked for a few minutes more, but he sensed Rita had given him as much as she could. He thanked her and asked her to call if she remembered anything else, to which she elicited a promise from him to keep in touch.

He revisited his notes. The more he puzzled over them, the more distant the answer seemed. Sleep crept up on him, urging him to lay his head on his hands. His muscles ached from their recent abuse, and his right hand felt as if it was on fire. He flexed his fingers, expecting to see the seeping telltale signs of infection, but all his cuts looked clean.

He fingered his cheek. It felt tender, nothing more than a graze from flesh on wood. His back hurt, and his spine seemed to have locked. He had to stretch upright, arms in the air, twisting at the waist, before he felt any comfort. He resisted the urge to have a Scotch nightcap, and limped off to his bedroom.

As he drifted off, his last waking image was of a thin Mexican woman smiling up at him. And in that smile he thought he saw the reflection of her lover with the yellow teeth.

CHAPTER 18

Gilchrist opened his eyes.

Overhead, his Velux window glistened with rain. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but his body seemed not to work.

He twisted his head, squinted one eye at his radio alarm. Seven forty-two.

He ran his hand around the back of his neck, felt the dampness of sweat and worried that he was running a fever. Feet on the floor, up and over to the bathroom, his body racking with coughs that brought up phlegm as black as coal. He popped a couple of Ibuprofen and downed them with a handful of cold water.

Showered and shaved, he dialled Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary and managed to get through to Betson’s ward. Betson had survived the night but was still in critical condition. Gilchrist thanked the nurse and was about to call Stan when his mobile rang.

He recognized the North Street number.

‘You’re wanted at the office.’

It took Gilchrist a full second to place the voice as Tosh’s, and one more for him to decide against hanging up. If Greaves was in any way involved, he had better be careful.

‘Wanted by whom?’ he asked.

‘Oh, listen to that. Wanted by
whom?’
A pause, then, ‘You’re wanted by me. DI Walter MacIntosh. That’s
whom
. And let’s make sure there’s no misunderstanding about what’s what. I couldn’t give a flying fuck how far up the ladder you think you are. You’d better get that smarmy arse of yours to the office pronto, or I swear I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.’

‘In your dreams, Tosh.’

‘Try nightmares, Gilchrist. I’m gonnie nail you this time.’

The connection went dead.

Nightmares? Gilchrist almost smiled.

If he had only known.

‘This is Chief Inspector Jeffrey Randall,’ Tosh began.

Gilchrist took Randall’s hand. The grip felt dry and firm.

‘Jeff’s from the Complaints and Discipline Department, and assisting me with our enquiries.’

‘Into what, exactly?’

Tosh smiled. ‘We’re coming to that. But first I’d like to show you these.’

Silent, Gilchrist watched Tosh remove a number of X-ray images from a large yellow envelope and slap them on to the table in front of him.

Gilchrist stared at the images for a moment, before picking them up.

Someone’s dental records. He read the name printed in felt-tip pen along the bottom.

Not just any someone. His brother Jack’s.

He slid them back to Tosh. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Wrong question. Try
why?
’

Gilchrist let his gaze shift to Randall, then back to Tosh, trying to play his best poker face. He would be damned if he was going to be forced to play Tosh’s game.

Tosh pulled the X-rays to him. ‘Didn’t know your brother had a crown.’

‘He had two, actually.’

Tosh nodded. ‘But I’m more interested in this,’ he said, stabbing a finger at the X-rays. ‘A missing tooth. Upper right.’ He squinted at the X-ray image. ‘And the date’s intriguing. Extracted on 19 February 1969.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

‘It’s five days before Hamish McLeod’s funeral.’

Gilchrist tried to ignore the significance of that, pretend it was harmless.

Tosh placed a plastic bag on the desk and slid it over to Gilchrist. ‘We found this on the woman’s clothing. It’s a tooth. Your dead brother Jack’s, to be exact. The one extracted on the nineteenth.’

As feared, the date made sense. He felt his brow furrow. Without a DNA analysis, how could Tosh be so confident? But even as he asked himself that question, he realized Tosh must have accessed his brother’s cold files and carried out a comparative DNA analysis on his clothing, all of which had been soaked through with Jack’s blood.

‘We had a DNA analysis done on the tooth. Mitochondrial. Quicker, cheaper, but every bit as damning.’

‘Define
damning
,’ Gilchrist said.

Tosh pressed close enough for Gilchrist to catch a whiff of underarm sweat. ‘You removed critical evidence from an ongoing murder investigation. You withheld further evidence vital to the enquiry. You could be charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice.’ Tosh sat back. ‘However, seeing as how we’re all part of the same team, we’d like to hear your side of the story first.’

Gilchrist did not miss the unspoken threat in the word
first
. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. How had Tosh managed to move so quickly? Had Mackie told them about the nicks on the lighter? But even if he had, what would that have proven? Gilchrist had told no one of the connection to his brother. Except Gina Belli. Her rush of anger came back to him. Had she lied?

As these questions flickered through his mind, he realized his error in not informing Mackie of his concerns. But more damaging had been his failure to return the lighter. He had been so consumed by Gina Belli’s psychic results – the driver, the passenger – that he had forgotten the lighter and left it lying on the table in the St Andrews Bay Hotel. With its connection to his brother now leaked, any competent Fiscal could turn that against Gilchrist and nail his head to the legislative wall for removing critical evidence. They might even argue that he was culpable in some way. Had his brother confessed to him all those years ago? Was that why he had removed a vital piece of evidence? What other secrets did he know about his brother, or Kelly’s murder? Gilchrist needed to limit the damage, somehow recover control.

‘Where did you find the tooth?’ he asked.

‘Let me ask the questions—’

‘Unless and until someone directs me otherwise, I am the senior investigating officer on this murder enquiry. And if you refuse to cooperate by not telling me where the tooth was found, I’ll have
you
charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

Tosh sat back with a forced grin. ‘Listen to him, Jeff. Back’s against the wall and he thinks he can still call the shots.’

Randall leaned forward. It struck Gilchrist then that Randall was not assisting Tosh, but the other way around. If Randall had been drafted in from Complaints and Discipline in Tayside, it was odds on that his next step was to chop Gilchrist from the case. ‘It was found wrapped in silver foil in the remains of the pocket of her nylon jacket, by . . .’ Randall referred to his notes, ‘. . . a Ms Geraldine McNab, an assistant with Dr Bert Mackie, the forensic pathologist.’

‘Thank you,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Why wasn’t I notified?’

‘You were, but your mobile was switched off.’

Gilchrist retrieved his mobile from his pocket, flicked it open, checked the log and, sure enough, there they were, two calls from the office.

He slapped it shut.

‘Do you have any idea how the tooth got there?’ Randall asked, his voice purring with an ingratiating English accent.

‘No.’ At least that was the truth.

Randall smiled, but Gilchrist sensed the worst was yet to come. ‘So, Andy. You don’t mind if I call you Andy?’

‘That’s my name.’

‘So, Andy, although we can all take a stab at why the tooth was in the jacket pocket in the first place, and why the lighter was on the body, too, what I don’t follow, you see, is why you would remove critical evidence from an ongoing murder investigation. Do you see my problem with that?’

Gilchrist clasped his hands. Gina’s words came back to him.
How far do you want to push using something that no one else believes in . . . at the ridicule of others?
His explanation for removing Jack’s lighter would sound ridiculous. What could he tell them? Who would believe him? On the bare face of it, it looked like he had removed it for no other reason than to protect his brother’s name.

‘Well?’ Tosh grinned at him.

‘I put it in my pocket by mistake,’ Gilchrist said at length.

‘Don’t give us that shit, Gilchrist. You put fuck all in your pocket by mistake. You were—’

‘Walter,’ purred Randall. ‘Let’s stick with the facts, shall we?’

Tosh shifted in his seat, eyes blazing. If ever there was a portal to the soul, Tosh’s eyes were it. He pressed forward. ‘Here’s how we see it,’ Tosh growled. ‘The lighter’s your brother’s. Fact one. The tooth’s your brother’s. Fact two. Both were found on the belongings of a dead woman. Kelly Roberts, to be exact. Fact three. A woman your brother was screwing when she died. Fact four. And the night Kelly was killed, your brother was involved in a fight outside the Keys. Fact five.’

Gilchrist almost jolted. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Did you not know that, Andy?’ Randall again.

‘No.’ Not strictly correct.

Tosh pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘So that puts—’

‘I asked, who told you that?’

Tosh screeched his chair away from the table and stood. He raked his hair, then tried a smile. ‘No one told us. It’s in the files. Your brother had a record. And don’t try to tell us you didn’t know
that.’

Record
might be the correct word, but being charged for underage drinking was hardly a serious offence. The fact that Jack had been attacked by two older youths as he was leaving the Keys, and in the act of defending himself knocked one of them unconscious and put the other in hospital, was something Gilchrist had always admired as a youngster. But Jack had been charged with assault and jailed for the night. In court the following day, the charges were dropped, thanks to three eyewitnesses.

Gilchrist returned Tosh’s riveting glare, seeing in his pig eyes an anger verging on the manic. ‘Which means what, exactly?’ he asked.

‘That your brother’s fingerprints are all over this case.’

‘Have you found any fingerprints?’

Randall raised his hand to stop Tosh from launching himself. ‘Let’s stay focused, shall we?’ He pulled himself closer to the table. ‘Andy, I have to ask you. Are you able to tell us why you withheld evidence regarding the cigarette lighter?’

‘What evidence?’

‘That it belonged to your brother.’

‘You don’t know that.’

Randall sat back, seemingly surprised by Gilchrist’s answer. But the truth of the matter, whether they liked it or not, was that the only person who could confirm the lighter belonged to his brother was himself. Which had him cursing under his breath that he had told Gina Belli.

‘It has three nicks,’ Tosh said. ‘You mentioned that to Mackie.’

‘And your point is?’

Randall stared at him, dead-eyed, and Gilchrist made a mental note to keep an eye on the man. Too smart by far. Cool and calculating.

‘Run through it for me,’ Randall said. ‘Your reasons for removing evidence on one count, and for withholding evidence on the second count.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Randall’s ice-blue eyes never flickered. Here, thought Gilchrist, is a man who could look the Devil in the eye and not flinch. He thought of calling the interview to an end and asking for his solicitor. But what would that prove? Requesting a solicitor could send the wrong message.