Tooth for a Tooth (3 page)

‘Gina. Please.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re famous.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since you solved the Stabber case.’

‘I was only one of an entire investigation team—’

‘Who was suspended and battled on alone.’

‘It took the entire Force to—’

‘Modest, too. I like that,’ she said, and before Gilchrist could complain, added, ‘And photogenic. I’ve seen some press coverage. We can do better than that. But most important of all, people will
pay
to read about your uncanny ability to solve difficult cases.’

Gilchrist almost laughed. ‘I really don’t think so.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Detective Chief Inspector. I’m good at what I do. One of the best. And so are you. You’re a bestseller just waiting to be sold, and you don’t even know it.’

Gilchrist took one long sip then pushed his half-finished pint away. ‘Listen, Ms Belli. I’m flattered. Truly I am. But I’m not interested. It was nice meeting you.’ He turned from the bar. ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’

‘Gotcha, Andy.’

‘Before you go.’

Gilchrist stopped, but knew he should have kept walking.

‘Grant me exclusive permission to write about you and your cases, and you get a percentage of the royalties. And we’re not talking paltry sums here.’ She shook her head. Her face seemed to harden. ‘No permission, no percentage.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

Gilchrist made to push past.

‘Wait.’ She slipped her hand into her bag and took out a business card. When she realized he was not going to take it she pushed it into his shirt pocket. ‘My mobile’s on twenty-four seven.’

Outside, the temperature had dropped close to freezing. Stars glittered in a cloudless sky, giving prelude to a bitter night. Gilchrist removed Gina Belli’s card from his shirt pocket, was about to rip it up, when something stopped him.

Instead, he slipped it into his wallet and kept walking.

She caught up with him as he stepped into Market Street, and surprised him by slipping her arm through his.

‘Do you mind?’ she asked. ‘It’s cold.’

He resisted pulling free, and said, ‘Well, in that case . . .’

He said nothing as they strolled across the cobbled street.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

‘Nowhere.’

‘Never been there.’

As they neared PM’s, the vinegary smell of fish and chips helped lift the misery of his day and reminded him he had missed lunch. ‘How about a fish supper?’ he asked her.

‘What about my figure?’

‘It looks fine to me.’

‘You should see it naked.’ She chuckled, her voice rasping like a smoker’s cough. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she went on, tightening her grip. ‘Skip the fish and chips and take me to a favourite pub of yours, and I’ll buy the rounds.’

It sounded more like a command than a request, but Gilchrist, to his surprise, heard himself say, ‘Just the one, then.’

‘The one what?’ she asked, eyes glinting with mischief. Then she tugged at his arm as if in reprimand. ‘I see I’m going to have to watch what I say to you. You take everything so literally.’

‘A fault of mine,’ he said.

‘One of many, I’m sure.’

Like a long-standing couple, they entered Union Street arm in arm. The air felt cold and damp on his throat, and he adjusted his scarf. Her fragrance, a perfume he knew he had smelled before, but could not place, teased with his senses. Her grip felt firm, not too tight, as if she feared that giving him any slack would let him flee. Their breath puffed hard in the night air, and they fell into easy step with each other, her thigh bumping against his.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ she asked.

What could he tell her? That he had let Maureen and Jack down by not attending the wake? That he should have called to explain? That he regretted the bitter end to his marriage with Gail? That the last time he visited her, they had argued? He shrugged. ‘Thought you were a psychic.’

She tugged his arm as if in annoyance, then carried on in silence.

They reached the Dunvegan Hotel as light rain started to fall. Gina brushed a bejewelled hand through her hair as she stepped into the bar. If Gilchrist had not known better, he would have sworn the room stilled for an instant. Gina looked in her element, like a star in the limelight toying with the cameras. She slipped off her coat, then her jacket, to reveal a matching waistcoat – no blouse – that exposed lean arms and tight muscle tone.

‘I’m going to have a Glenfiddich,’ she said. ‘On the rocks. Want one?’

‘It’s Glenfiddich with an ick, not an itch.’

‘There’s that perfectionism again. So you’ll join me?’

Gilchrist seldom drank whisky, but said, ‘Why not?’

‘Two double Glenfiddichs,’ she said to the barman. ‘On the rocks.’

While Gina studied the gantry, Gilchrist studied the lounge. He recognized a number of regulars, nodding to them when they glanced his way.

‘You’re a popular kind of a guy,’ she said.

‘It’s a small town.’

‘And you’re the small-town hero.’ She handed Gilchrist his whisky. ‘I tell you, it makes you almost irresistible.’ She raised her glass. ‘What do they say in Scotland? Up your kilt?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Up your kilt, Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.’ She chinked her glass against his, then took more than a fair mouthful.

‘I’m off duty,’ he said. ‘Andy’s fine.’

She grinned, white teeth against tanned skin. ‘I didn’t want to sound too intimate in a crowded bar.’

‘Do you always do this with your subjects?’ he said. ‘Act the vixen?’

Something flashed behind her eyes. Anger, irritation, he could not say. She seemed like a crackerjack filled with emotions, as if she could burst into laughter one second then attack him with clawed fingernails the next. But the moment passed.

‘My latest book was about the case of Frankie Hannerstone,’ she said.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Her.’

‘Still drawing a blank.’

‘Frankie went to work one morning, four years ago, and never arrived. Her husband reported her missing later that night. By the time I was called in, she’d been missing for two years in the Carolinas. The FBI suspected her husband had killed her, but he had a rock-solid alibi. Plus, no body. He claimed she’d been threatening for years to leave him. So he supposed that’s what she’d done.’

‘You were called in?’

‘Huh?’

‘You said you were called in. Why?’

‘As well as writing, I’m a psychic-detective. I assist law-enforcement officers throughout the States in solving cold cases. Three out of every four I’m involved in get closed, or are progressed significantly.’

‘That’s an impressive record.’

She eased closer, as if to confide in him. ‘It all depends on how my sightings are received, and what the police do with them. Whether they take them seriously enough to consider throwing resources at it, or not.’

‘Sightings? As in, I see dead people?’

‘Yes.’ She took a sip. ‘Does that scare you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Just hard to believe.’

‘I’m used to disbelievers.’

‘Do you see any dead people now?’

She nodded to a group of four ruddy-faced caddies at the corner of the bar. ‘The guy at the end,’ she said, ‘has just lost a family member.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Female.’

‘You can see her?’

‘It’s not as simple as that. But, yes, I
see
her.’

Gilchrist studied the caddies. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, not exactly mourning the loss of a family member. Somehow, just looking at them caused the hair on the nape of his neck to rise. He returned to the safety of his drink. The whisky warmed his throat, the ice chilled it.

‘So, this Frankie Hannerstone,’ he said, ‘did you find her?’

‘In a storage locker on the outskirts of Vegas. Her body had been chopped up and kept in a deep freezer.’

‘How did you discover it?’

‘I didn’t. I gave the police clues from her personal effects.’

‘You rub your thumbs over a photo or two, then tell them where to find the body?’

‘Buy my book. Check it out. Call up the Sheriff’s Office. They’ll confirm it.’ She paused, as if trying to read the disbelief on Gilchrist’s face. ‘And what about
your
cold cases?’ she asked him.

An image of the skeleton burst into his mind. ‘What about them?’

‘
It,’
she said.

‘Now you’ve lost me.’

‘That’s the author in me.’

Maybe it was the effects of the whisky, or the cosiness of the bar, or the look in her eyes, but Gilchrist surprised himself by saying, ‘Which case would you like to discuss?’

‘Tell me about your brother Jack,’ she said, without missing a beat.

Something shifted in Gilchrist’s chest. ‘That’s out of bounds,’ he grunted.

‘You were only twelve when it happened. Surely—’

‘Look,’ he said, struggling to keep his tone even, ‘I’m happy to have a drink with you, but if you don’t want my company, keep this up.’

Her gaze danced over his, as if searching for the strength of his conviction in one or other of his eyes. Then she glared at him. ‘You’re serious.’

‘I’m glad we agree on something.’

‘Come on, Andy. I can help you.’

‘You’re surprising me.’

‘In what way?’

‘You’re not as smart as I first thought.’

Her look changed at that moment, and she set her whisky on the bar with a force that should have cracked the glass. She pulled on her jacket, threw her coat over her arm. ‘It’s such a pity,’ she snarled. ‘I was getting to like you.’

When she left, he ordered a pint of Eighty. But it did little to cheer him. Somehow, Gina’s departure felt like a replay of all his past relationships, as if reaffirming how he would spend the rest of his life; standing alone in a bar, with his pint. He took no more than a sip before he shoved the glass away.

As he stood to leave, he caught the hotel owner’s eye. ‘Sheena,’ he said. ‘These four at the end of the bar. Anyone in mourning?’

‘Danny,’ she replied. ‘His sister was killed in a car accident last weekend.’

Gilchrist pulled his scarf around his neck. He thought he caught a look of mourning in Danny’s eyes as he pushed through the crowd.

CHAPTER 3

The following morning, Gilchrist arrived at the office just after 6.30, and almost bumped into DI Walter ‘Tosh’ MacIntosh as he pushed through the entrance doorway.

‘Only the wicked get in this early, Gilchrist. Kicked you out of bed, did she?’

Gilchrist’s half-nod and snarl for a smile was all he could offer the man.

‘Some dog you picked up last night, was she?’ Tosh said, pushing past him and out into the morning chill. ‘That cock of yours is going to land you in trouble one day.’

Gilchrist strode towards his office, Tosh’s laughter ringing in his ears.

It took a good thirty minutes before he managed to push all thoughts of Tosh from his head and, after checking his email and catching up with the latest reports on his investigation, none of which told him anything new, he reached the Victoria Café by eight o’clock. He ordered only a pot of tea, and was lost in the
Courier
when Stan arrived. At six foot two Stan was one inch taller than Gilchrist. But where Gilchrist was slim-framed, Stan had shoulders wide enough to hang a suit on. He pulled up the chair opposite and flicked open his notebook.

‘Here’s what I’ve got,’ Stan said. ‘Some of the older folks remember McLeod’s funeral.’ He ran a finger down the page. ‘Most are in their seventies and eighties now, and those I spoke to offered a few more names until I have what I think is the full list. Well, at least of the locals. But I think that’s it. The McLeods had no children, no living relatives.’

‘No living relatives thirty-five years ago?’

Stan blinked, then scribbled in his notebook. ‘That I don’t know yet.’

‘Keep going.’

‘As best I can tell, twenty-two people attended McLeod’s funeral. Of those, twelve are no longer around . . .’

‘Dead? Or left the area?’

‘Eleven dead. One in England. Nance is chasing up on that. Which leaves ten.’

‘And?’

‘Most interesting was old Sammy Wilson, now eighty-six. His wife passed away last year at the age of ninety.’ Stan looked at his notes. ‘Sammy says he went to McLeod’s funeral so he would know where to go when he wanted to shite on someone’s grave.’

‘Charming.’

‘His own words. According to Sammy, Hamish McLeod was a miserable bastard who deliberately died so he wouldn’t have to cough up the fiver he owed him.’

Gilchrist grimaced. He had seen fights start in bars over change that would not buy a book of matches.