Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  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.

  ‘Then there’s Tam and Liz Docherty,’ Stan said, studying his notes. ‘Could barely remember each other’s names, let alone what went on thirty-odd years ago. Then Bernie Bingham.’

  ‘Bingham? Is that the Bingham who—’

  ‘The very same. His wife, Betty, committed suicide not long after. But he looks like he’s lost all his marbles now. Just sat there staring into space.’

  Gilchrist felt something shift in his gut. The decomposed bodies of both Bingham children had been found in an abandoned well twenty-four years ago.

  ‘Jack and Doreen McGinlay,’ Stan went on. ‘They’re still alive. Barely. No luck there. Then we’re on to Dan Simpson. He was able to tell me he went with a couple of his drinking buddies – Billy McLeod, no relation to Hamish, and Jimmy Patterson – but they couldn’t tell me anything new.’

  ‘You said ten,’ said Gilchrist. ‘That was nine.’

  Stan closed his notebook. ‘Douglas Ewart was there.’

  For a fleeting moment, the name did not register. ‘Dougie?’ Gilchrist finally said.

  ‘The very same. He was a medical student at the university back then. Says his family knew the McLeods.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Phoned him last night around midnight. Said he couldn’t speak, his wife was asleep. I pissed him off a touch. But he agreed to meet. If anyone can remember what went on back then, he can.’

  Stan’s bacon roll was served, and Gilchrist poured two cups of tea, recalling what he could of Douglas Ewart MD.

  Dougie once worked with Bert Mackie as assistant police pathologist in Ninewells, but left in the early eighties to set up a private practice in Cupar. Apparently the sight of one too many dead bodies forced him to change career, and as coincidence would have it, it had been the bodies of the Bingham children that caused him to move. Though he had no children of his own, he had found the task of performing a post-mortem on their mutilated and decomposed bodies too much to stomach. Two weeks rotting in the stinking mud of an abandoned well would do that to human flesh.

  As far as Gilchrist knew, Dougie was a private man who went through life with the minimum of fuss, never ruffling feathers, doing his job to the best of his ability. He was not a high-flyer, more of a plodder, and someone you could trust.

  ‘He said he had a break in his morning schedule at nine thirty, which gives us . . .’ Stan looked at his wristwatch, ‘. . . ten minutes to finish breakfast.’

  They arrived at Ewart’s surgery five minutes late. The building looked drab and uninviting, a box extension on to an old stone complex. The receptionist led them down a hallway that ended at a white door. She knocked, pushed the door and stepped to the side.

  Ewart crossed the room with the single-mindedness of a lion chasing a gazelle. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, and shook Gilchrist’s hand. ‘Good to see you again, Andy.’

  Gilchrist introduced Stan, and Ewart grabbed his hand.

  Ewart’s office was small and square and uninteresting. Two windows, framed by white venetian blinds, kept out the sunlight. Glossy prints of various parts of the human anatomy hung in a haphazard arrangement on walls that could have used a coat of paint. Ewart appeared to be a man who wasted no money on luxuries, which matched Gilchrist’s earlier memories of him. Ewart drifted behind his desk and gestured at the seats.

  ‘Right,’ Ewart began. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Apologies for calling so late last night,’ said Stan. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Afraid Millie was not a little displeased, I have to say. Beauty sleep, and all that.’

  Gilchrist thought he caught a hint of annoyance in Ewart’s eyes, nothing much, but enough to pique his interest. ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Second wife. Nothing like Megs. Different animal altogether. Day and night.’

  Gilchrist nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll prune the bushes at the weekend. Keep her sweet.’ Ewart rattled out a laugh. ‘Millie loves the garden. Keeps me on my toes.’ He wrung his hands. ‘So, what’s this all about?’

  ‘We want to ask you about Hamish McLeod’s funeral,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Back in February ’69. I believe you were there.’

  Ewart’s gaze settled on something over Gilchrist’s shoulder for a long moment, then returned. ‘What about it?’

  ‘How well did you know Hamish?’

  Ewart frowned, shook his head. ‘Hardly at all. He was a friend of my parents. Worked in the Post Office with my father. For some reason, neither he nor my mother wanted to go to his funeral.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No idea. Never asked. Just did as I was told. Went along to represent the family.’

  ‘Your parents still alive?’ Stan asked.

  ‘No. Both gone over ten years now. Within a year of each other.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gilchrist.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you know Mrs McLeod died three days ago?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘Can you remember who was at Hamish’s funeral?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘They were mostly friends of my parents, and older than me. I didn’t want to go. But duty called. It was a miserable affair. And a miserable day, too. Dull and raining. Umbrellas up. I can still see Mrs McLeod standing at the graveside. She seemed strong, in control of her emotions. Not crying. And her daughter, too. She was there.’

  Gilchrist paused. ‘The McLeods didn’t have any children.’

  ‘They didn’t?’ Ewart
frowned. ‘Well, that goes to show how well I knew them.’

  ‘Why did you think she was her daughter?’

  ‘She had dark hair, dark eyes and looked Italian. So naturally I assumed she was her daughter. I wonder who she could have been.’

  ‘She looked Italian?’

  Ewart almost smirked. ‘Mrs McLeod’s family was from Italy.’

  Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘I thought you hardly knew the McLeods.’

  Ewart looked straight at Gilchrist, hands flat on his desk. ‘My father told me,’ he said. ‘Mrs McLeod came to Scotland as a young woman not long after the war.’

  ‘Did you speak to her after the funeral?’

  ‘No. I went home.’ Ewart tried to give an embarrassed shrug. ‘Most of the other students lived in rented accommodation. Being a local boy I stayed at home with good old Mum and Dad.’

  Gilchrist forced his thoughts back on track. ‘Can you recall how many people were there?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s this about, please?’

  Ewart’s response seemed more challenge than question. Gilchrist placed his elbow on Ewart’s desk and moved closer. ‘Yesterday,’ he said, ‘a woman’s skeleton was discovered in Hamish’s plot.’

  Ewart grimaced. ‘Was anyone reported missing back then?’

  ‘Back when?’

  Ewart seemed to freeze, like a child trapped in the telling of a lie. ‘You did say skeleton. So I’m assuming it’s been there a while.’

  Gilchrist nodded, oddly deflated.

  ‘Well, was there?’ Ewart asked.

  ‘We’re looking into that,’ said Stan.

  ‘Do you know who she was?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Here?’ Ewart’s face adopted a look of pain. ‘Are you in any way suggesting—’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ said Gilchrist, and returned Ewart’s firm look with one of his own. ‘We’re trying to establish who was at the funeral, what they saw, what they can remember. We intend to talk to everyone who was there.’

  Ewart settled, seemingly satisfied. ‘Well, I’ve told all I know.’

  Gilchrist prodded a few more questions, but Ewart could offer little more. Gilchrist stood, and offered his hand. ‘Thanks for your time, Dougie. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Ewart shook Gilchrist’s hand as vigorously as before. He smiled, a short flash of teeth that folded into a grimace. ‘If there’s anything else I can do . . .’

  ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  Outside, Gilchrist and Stan walked across the car park in silence.

  The Merc’s lights flashed as Gilchrist pressed his remote and opened the door.

  Gilchrist swung his Roadster around the end of a row of parked cars and drove back past Ewart’s office. ‘Don’t be too obvious, Stan, but second window from the right. What do you see?’ Gilchrist eased along the car park and pulled to a halt at the exit. From that location, Ewart’s office was out of sight. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone peeped through the blinds, boss.’

  ‘Dougie?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Now why would he do that?’

  ‘Happy to see us leave?’

  ‘That would be my first guess.’ Gilchrist pulled into the flow of traffic.

  ‘Have to say, boss, that I thought he had a good memory. All those years ago and he can still remember what the weather was like.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was ready for your questions.’

  Gilchrist gave Stan’s words some thought. But an image of Dr Douglas Ewart in the throes of murdering someone, and a woman at that, simply refused to manifest. ‘You got Sammy Wilson’s address?’ he asked.

  Stan slapped his pocket. ‘In my notebook, boss.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I’d like to talk to him.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Sammy Wilson lived in a council house on Tom Morris Drive, south of the West Port. The garden either side of the slabbed path looked neat and tidy, but on closer inspection had about it the look of an old man’s face after shaving in the dark.

  Sammy answered the door wearing a worn woollen coat and flat cap, its tip finger-blackened smooth. For a moment he struggled for recognition, then showed his false teeth. ‘It’s yourself, son,’ he said. ‘In yous come.’

  ‘Were you going out?’ asked Gilchrist.

  ‘Naw. The bloody place is freezing. Have to wear a coat to keep the heating bills down.’ He turned and stepped down the hall, his voice echoing, thickened with phlegm. ‘Scandalous, so it is, the bloody price of stuff.’ He gave a cough that seemed to shake his body to his toes. ‘Can hardly afford to buy myself a bloody half these days.’

  Gilchrist walked along a dark hallway redolent of burned toast. Doors lay opened to bedrooms long since transformed into storage rooms. Cardboard boxes, plastic crates, clothes folded badly, rows of leather boots, shoes, half a library of paperbacks, bicycles by the dozen, littered the floors and climbed the walls. In the far corner by a curtained window he glimpsed a scythe, its curved wooden handle grey with age.

  They followed Sammy into a room with drawn curtains. The floor was cramped from more junk, except for a cleared space in the middle of a threadbare carpet. A television sat on an upturned milk crate, a wire aerial perched on top. A fuzzy black-and-white picture filled its screen, faced by a wooden chair with a single cushion.

  ‘I’d offer you a seat. But I’ve only got the one.’

  ‘We’re used to standing,’ said Gilchrist.

  ‘Do yous golf?’

  Gilchrist followed Sammy’s gaze to a bundle of knotted plastic bags on the floor that bulged with the pimpled swelling of what had to be hundreds of golf balls.

  ‘A way to make some spare cash, son, without the taxman knowing. I walk the golf courses, like. But I’m no stupid. I know where to look. See?’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Gives me money for beer.’

  ‘How much do you sell them for?’ Stan asked.

  ‘Three for a pound. Thirty-five pee each.’

  Stan peered at the rows of bags. ‘Any Titleist Pro V-1s?’

  ‘Aye, son. But they’re a good ball.’ Sammy coughed again, a heavy burst of phlegm that had Gilchrist thinking the old man had pneumonia. From a box behind him, Sammy pulled out another plastic bag. ‘I have to charge fifty pee each for these ones, son. That’s two for a pound. Take as many as you like.’

  Stan took hold of the bag.

  ‘While Tiger’s going through the stash,’ Gilchrist said, ‘I’d like to ask a few questions. We’re here about Hamish McLeod’s funeral.’

  Sammy scowled. ‘I hope they make as much fuss about my funeral as they’re making about that miserable old sod’s.’

  ‘What was your relationship to Hamish?’

  ‘I wisnae related to—’

  ‘I know that, Sammy. But why did you go to his funeral?’

  ‘As a mark of respect, like.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

  ‘It wisnae out of respect for that thieving bastard,’ growled Sammy, his eyes taking on a distant look. ‘It was for Lorella. She was a fine-looking woman, son,’ he said, and stared at some spot on the wall.

  Gilchrist thought he now understood the reason for Sammy’s dislike of Hamish. He waited until the old man’s gaze returned to him with a couple of blinks, as if surprised to find he was still alive. ‘We’re trying to establish the names of everyone who attended the funeral. Could I ask you to go through them again?’

  ‘I done that last night, son.’

  ‘Maybe a name or two came back to you in your dreams.’ He tapped Stan on the arm. Stan pulled out his notebook.

  Sammy shut his eyes and recited each name in turn, Stan ticking them off as he did so. The old man’s eyes flickered as if watching some action on the back of paper-thin eyelids, each name followed by a nod. At last, he looked at Gilchrist. ‘Of course, my Jenny was alive back then.
’

  Gilchrist waited while Sammy dabbed a thick thumb to the corners of his eyes. ‘Take your time,’ he offered. ‘You’re doing wonderfully well.’

  Sammy grimaced. ‘There was two more. But I didnae know their names.’

  ‘Can you remember what they looked like?’

  Sammy shook his head. ‘I didnae pay them any attention, mind. I just clicked that they was there, like.’

  ‘Male? Female?’

  ‘A man and a woman. Students, I think they was.’

  ‘Young, were they?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Were they together?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Dougie Ewart, thought Gilchrist. And Mrs McLeod’s ‘daughter’. ‘Did you see the young woman console Mrs McLeod?’

  Sammy frowned, causing skin to corrugate the length of his forehead, letting Gilchrist see the full age of the man. ‘Everybody was consoling her, son.’

  ‘But the woman who stood beside her,’ nudged Gilchrist. ‘The one who was hugging her and talking to her. Can you remember her, Sammy?’

  Sammy turned his head and stared at the heap of domestic junk, as if each box was a book of memories from which he could retrieve an image.

  Gilchrist placed a hand on Sammy’s shoulder, felt the hard lump of bones beneath the coat. ‘If you can’t remember, Sammy, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Sorry, son. It’s just too long ago.’ He coughed again, a barking sound that echoed from somewhere deep inside his chest.

  ‘I think you should see the doctor, Sammy.’

  ‘Cannae stand the buggers. A hot toady’s what I need.’

  Gilchrist handed over his card. ‘If you remember anything else, give me a call.’

  ‘I’ll take the lot,’ said Stan. ‘Sixteen Pro V-1s in here. That’s eight quid.’

  Gilchrist pulled out a twenty and handed it to Sammy. ‘Keep the change, Sammy.’

  ‘Son?’

  ‘Buy yourself a bottle and have some hot toadies. You’ve been a great help.’

  They spent the remainder of the day checking local misper files and the Police National Computer reports for mispers around the time of McLeod’s funeral.

  Local records turned up nothing. Two teenage boys had disappeared from Crail in October of that year. Gilchrist had vague memories of the incident, being only twelve at the time. Ten years later, one of the boys returned, having lived in London with his missing friend who was then working in a bar in St Tropez.