Tooth for a Tooth (6 page)

‘Mum didn’t want you to visit because of the way she looked.’

‘It wouldn’t have mattered to me how she looked.’

‘It mattered to Mum.’

Gilchrist stared across fields that stirred alive with the shadows of tumbling clouds. Beyond, on the horizon, the black silhouette of a ship seemed anchored in time. He felt an inexplicable urge to be standing on board, facing the wind, breathing in the promise of—

‘Mum was only a shadow of herself.’ Maureen’s voice cut into his thoughts like a cold wind. ‘She couldn’t keep her food down. You would hardly have recognized her.’

Gilchrist pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes, surprised by the sting. Gail had always been a fighter, and she had fought for every one of those final closing days. ‘I’m sorry, Mo,’ he offered. ‘I’m not thinking straight. The whole thing’s come as a shock. Are you all right?’ He listened to another sniff, then said, ‘I’ll be in Glasgow this evening. We could meet if you’d like.’

‘I can’t.’

No explanation, just a statement that dared him to challenge her. But what hurt was the thought that she might prefer to visit Harry rather than spend time with her father. He forced those thoughts away. She had somewhere to go, friends to see. Not Harry.

‘Let’s talk later,’ he said.

‘Sure.’

He hung up, but not before Maureen.

He gritted his teeth. After Gail and Harry moved to Glasgow, taking Jack and Maureen with them, he often felt he was out of touch with his children. He promised himself he would call more often, spend more time with them, now Gail had gone. Not that they needed him, if the truth be told, but that he needed them.

With that thought, he called Jack, but could only leave a message, asking him to get back for a chat. He eased the Mercedes off the grass verge and called Stan as he accelerated into traffic.

‘Listen to this, boss. Nance visited the university, like you asked.’

Gilchrist pressed the phone to his ear. Nance could be as tough as a bulldog when she got her teeth into something, and twice as determined.

‘She spoke to the dean of the geography and geosciences faculty, who said that female students often formed clubs that provided each of its members with a token of membership. Pens, diaries—’

‘Cigarette lighters?’

‘Correct, boss.’

‘And get this,’ Stan went on, failing to keep the triumph from his voice. ‘They were often initialled.’ A pause, as if to let the statement settle. ‘I’m willing to bet we’ll find initials on the cigarette lighter.’

‘Willing enough to try to clear the twenty quid you owe me?’

‘Done.’

‘Sorry to burst your bubble, Stan, but Bert doesn’t think the scratches are initials.’

‘Come on, boss. They must be.’

‘That’s forty. Keep this up and you’ll be applying for a mortgage soon.’

‘Aw, shit. What are they, then?’

‘Bert couldn’t say for sure. Probably random scratches.’ Gilchrist listened to Stan curse under his breath. ‘Great try, Stan. Did the Dean know which club gave out lighters?’

‘No, boss. That’s problem number two. Some of them were secret, with only three or four members. Some even swore to lifelong secrecy.’

‘Have Nance stick with it,’ he ordered. ‘Get her to find out which club gave out what. I want names, addresses, phone numbers, the lot. OK?’

‘Got it, boss.’

‘Any luck with the dental records?’ he went on.

‘Yes and no. The good news is they’ll be sent through soon. The bad news is that none appear to match. None of her teeth have fillings. They’re perfect. Did she never eat sweeties?’

‘Maybe her father was a dentist.’ Again, Gilchrist wondered why her parents had not reported her missing. Had they been alive back then? Were they alive now? And in a town of sixteen thousand residents, maybe only ten or twelve thousand in ’69, why had no one at all reported her missing?

‘Nance has come up with a few names, boss. Three students who were all members of the same club. Years ago, Nance’s old dear worked as a waitress in the Central Bar of all places, for about ten or twelve years.’

Gilchrist frowned. The Central was one of his regulars, had been for the last thirty-plus years. He’d had his first pint there at the age of sixteen. Underage by two years, but his height helped him pull it off. Besides, the place was always flooded with students, and back then he blended in. If Nance’s mother worked in the Central, he must have come across her.
Nancy Wilson. Wilson
. Gilchrist wracked his brain for a face to a name. Then he had it. A small woman, overweight, with dirty blonde hair. ‘Her name Phyllis?’

‘That’s her, boss.’

‘I never knew she was Nance’s mother.’

‘Small world, boss. But listen to this: according to Nance, her old dear remembers a group of girl students who came into the pub at least three times a week. Once a month, on a Saturday night, they would each order up four double Moscow Mules, and on the last one light up cigars.’

‘Cigars?’

‘It was a bit of a ceremony, boss. They were all pished, of course.’

‘Four Moscow Mules?’ said Gilchrist. ‘Which year was this?’

‘Late sixties, early seventies, as best she can remember.’

Gilchrist tightened his grip on his mobile. ‘Anything else?’

‘She remembers one of the girls’ names because it was Grant,’ Stan said. ‘The same as her husband. Jeanette Grant.’

‘Where’s this Jeanette Grant now?’

‘Nance is still trying to track her down.’

‘Get her to call me with an address.’

‘Got it, boss. And one other thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Gina Belli’s called the office three times today, asking to speak to you. Nice voice. Very sexy.’

‘You wouldn’t like her, Stan. Believe me. She’s way too old for you.’

‘Could have fooled—’

‘Get someone to help Nance. And get her to give me a call.’ He hung up.

Gina Belli.
Nice voice? Very sexy?

He slowed for the mini-roundabout at City Road, was about to turn right when the lights of the Dunvegan caught his eye.
Just the one
, he thought, and accelerated up the hill.

He found a parking spot in The Scores and five minutes later was standing at the bar, a creamy pint of Eighty-Shilling in his hand. It somehow felt odd having stood on that same spot the night before with Gina Belli, all eyes turned her way while she stripped off her jacket. He wondered if the real reason for stopping at the Dunvegan was his secret hope that she would be there, that he was looking for her, this Gina Belli, the psychic detective in the business suit with waistcoat and no blouse and a tan that pronounced to all who ogled that she was a woman from another part of the world. And don’t you forget it.

His mobile vibrated.

‘Stan said you wanted me to call,’ said Nance.

‘Only when you found something.’

‘I’ve got a few names and addresses that might give us a start.’

‘Let’s have them.’

‘Well, working on your theory that the body was buried at the same time as Hamish McLeod, that works out to be the year Jeanette Grant entered her second year of university. I concentrated on that year first, then the year either side of that. If we draw a blank with these names, I can dig into other years.’

‘So, what have you got?’

‘Eight in total. All now married. Six in Scotland, two in England. One lives near here, in Cupar.’

As he listened to Nance go through her list of names like a roll call, he thought of the cigarette lighter, and wondered if that was reason enough to focus only on the four cigar-smoking students who drank Moscow Mules in the Central—

‘Stop,’ he snapped. ‘Go back, go back. Who was that?’

‘Agnes Bullock, née McIver?’

‘No, no. Before that.’

‘Margaret Ewart, née Caulder?’

‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘She lives in Cupar. Right?’

‘You know her?’

‘Douglas Ewart’s ex-wife. Megs, he called her. Ewart was at McLeod’s funeral.’ He caught the bartender’s eye and gestured for a pen and paper. ‘You and Stan talk to Megs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll visit Jeanette Grant. Is that her married name?’

‘No. Jeanette Pennycuick.’

‘How d’you spell that?’ he asked, and wrote it down. ‘Telephone number?’

He noted the Glasgow code, which had him thinking he could kill two birds, maybe three, with the one stone. ‘Once you’ve talked to Megs,’ he said, ‘get on with the others.’

‘With all due respect, Andy, this is only one avenue,’ Nance said. ‘We’ve nothing to confirm the skeleton was even that of a student.’

‘Any other suggestions?’

‘Have you thought of digital reconstruction?’

‘That’s why I’m going to visit Pennycuick.’

A pause, then, ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Glasgow University, Nance. And Dr Heather Black of the Computing Science Department and the Turing Institute.’

‘Is she any good?’

‘Pioneering, I think you would call her. But until we have a visual to work from, I’m afraid it’s good old-fashioned detective work. Talk to people. Ask questions. Poke and prod. All right?’

‘I’m on it.’

‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ he tried.

A pause, then, ‘I’m busy, Andy. I can’t.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Keep me posted.’

He tried Jeanette Pennycuick’s number, but after six rings a woman’s aristocratic voice ordered him to
leave a number and someone will return your call
.

He eyed the scribbled address, knew enough about Glasgow to know it was located in the West End, where Jack lived. He had not visited Jack for a couple of months, so he asked Sheena if he could borrow a bottle of The Macallan 10.

He left his Eighty half finished and stepped into the damp October chill.

CHAPTER 5

The drive to Glasgow cast up more images of Gail.

Gilchrist had thought, perhaps even hoped, that at the moment of her passing he and Gail would somehow make peace with each other, for the memories they shared, for the love they once had, for the children they brought into the world.

From the moment he first set eyes on her he had loved her. He had loved her cheeky irreverence of things authoritarian. When they had staggered across the golf course and she stepped from her knickers in the Valley of Sin and giggled at the look on his face as she lay down on the damp grass, he had loved the simple symbolism of that action. This is my life, she was saying to him. No one can tell me what to do. Come share it with me. He had loved her for that. He had loved her through a short but torrid courtship and nineteen difficult years of marriage that swung with discomfiting ease from passionate to indifferent.

And he loved her still. He would always love her.

But the truth was that Gail’s love for him had changed like the clicking of a switch. She had cast him off like an old winter coat as she welcomed the fresh summer winds of her new lover, Harry.

Harry
. God, how he hated the sound of that name, a name that cast up images of extramarital sex behind locked doors in the hospital administration building, rushed and desperate and kept out of sight of all and sundry. But although Gilchrist had not once strayed, he saw that his love affair with his job had caused the death of his marriage.

When Gail’s affair started, their marriage was already dead.

That thought calmed him. Detective Chief Inspector Andrew James Gilchrist of the St Andrews Division of Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department had no one to blame but himself.

He had just slipped on to the M876 when his mobile rang from a number he did not recognize.

‘You’re a hard man to track down.’

He grimaced at the American accent. ‘And you’re a hard woman to lose.’

Gina Belli laughed, a grating sound he found unattractive. ‘You hiding from me?’

‘Trying to. I like to keep my personal life personal.’

‘You almost made the cover of
Newsweek
after the Stabber case. Did you know that?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘To people who write biographies, yes.’ She paused. ‘Where are you?’

He ignored her question, wanted to ask how she found his mobile number, but heard Stan’s voice say,
Nice voice. Very sexy
, and already knew. ‘You need to stop calling me,’ he replied.

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘I’m out of town.’

‘Tomorrow night?’

‘I think I’m losing you. You’re sounding faint.’

‘You can do better than that, Andy. If you want to disconnect, just say so. But I’ll be in the Central tomorrow night at seven. I’d like to ask you something.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Not on the phone,’ she said. ‘And one other thing . . .’

Gilchrist waited.

‘I don’t bite.’