Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  The PNC files offered more promising leads and Gilchrist downloaded photographs where available, or asked the local police to fax or email him what they had. By the end of the day, they had a few more mispers to look into.

  ‘That’s nine possibles,’ said Stan. ‘And I’d say at least five of these are long shots. But we still don’t know for sure that she went missing in ’69.’

  ‘It’s all we’ve got,’ Gilchrist conceded. He picked up one of the photographs. The date confirmed the girl had been missing for nineteen years. She looked to be in her teens, hair dark, untidy, with eyes that could have been borrowed from an older woman. What had he been doing when she had vanished? Back then he and Gail had been happy. At the moment of the girl’s disappearance, had he and Gail been laughing, crying, making love? Playing with their own children? He studied the image. Thin lips stretched tight over teeth almost hidden from the camera, but parted just enough to confirm that one of her front teeth was decayed black. He handed the photograph to Stan and pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘Where’re we off to, boss?’

  ‘We’re not. You stay put and get dental records for every one of these.’

  Stan’s face almost slumped.

  Gilchrist pulled his Mercedes into the car park of the police mortuary in West Bell Street, Dundee. Inside, he entered the post-mortem room and found Bert Mackie already hard at it, his attention held by a skeleton on the closer of the two PM tables. Gilchrist had never become accustomed to the smell of the mortuary, a fragrance thick enough to taste. He slipped an elasticated mask over his lower face as he approached the table.

  Mackie glanced up. ‘Been expecting you, Andy. Come see our lady.’

  In front of him lay a disconnected skeleton, bones washed clean and tinged red from soil that now lay like mud in a bucket on the tiled floor. Gilchrist tried to picture the skeleton covered with skin and, in doing so, imagined the woman to be slim.

  ‘What do we have?’ he asked Mackie.

  ‘The thirty-plus-year-old skeleton of a young woman. More than likely killed by a blow to the head. See here?’ Mackie ran a finger around the cracked indentation in the skull. ‘No new bone growth of any kind, which suggests she died immediately, or shortly after, assuming of course that she was alive at the time of the blow.’

  Gilchrist leaned closer.

  ‘Slightly taller than average. Five-ten,’ went on Mackie. ‘Slight in build. No fractures, no broken bones of any kind. Except this.’

  He ran his hand down the skeleton’s lower left leg and stopped at the ankle. ‘See here?’ He removed a bone from the foot. ‘This has been cracked and healed, somewhat poorly, I have to say. See this ridge? The fracture is an injury normally associated with a sprain. She could have twisted her foot stepping off the pavement. It’s impossible to determine exactly how long before death the fracture occurred, but I’d say no more than a year, maybe less.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Teeth.’ Mackie returned to the top of the table and picked up the skull. ‘All thirty-one of them are perfect,’ he said. ‘Not a single filling. The top right wisdom tooth never came through.’

  ‘Could she be coloured?’

  ‘The shape of the skull suggests Caucasian.’ Mackie held the skull in profile, staring at it with almost morbid fascination, before returning it to the head of the skeleton. ‘I’d say she was a common-or-garden white woman.’

  Gilchrist felt his body give an involuntary shiver. When she had been killed, she had been younger than his daughter, Maureen. And something in that thought sent a cold frisson the length of his spine.

  He turned away.

  On the other table, a white sheet bulged in the shape of a bloated belly. Was the body simply fat, or swollen by the gases of putrefaction? A set of scales stood nearby, their trays glistening wet with slime, and Gilchrist marvelled at Mackie’s apparent resilience to the daily revulsion of his profession – skin that glistened black and blistered like overcooked meat, or peeled from the bone at the touch of a finger, or burst open like ripened fruit.

  He forced his attention back to the skull.

  He stared at it, trying to imagine skin, nose, lips, eyes, hair, all the superficial tissue that forms the human face. He found his gaze pulled to the eye sockets, and wondered what her eyes had last seen. Had she watched her killer strike? Or had she been taken by surprise? Was her last living image that of a word in a book, or a view from her window?

  And her perfect teeth. What had her mouth been like? Had her lips been full or thin? What words had passed between them? Had she called out the name of her killer? Had she screamed? Was that the last sound she made?

  Someone must have known her. Someone must have missed her.

  ‘Anyone from the science lab expected over?’ he asked.

  ‘Later, they tell me.’

  Gilchrist eyed the skeleton. The Police Forensic Science Lab Dundee – PFSLD – had specialists expert in skeletal examination. But later was not fast enough. Besides, he needed to ID the woman, and knew someone who might be able to help.

  ‘Is Heather Black still one of the best?’ he asked Mackie.

  ‘Glasgow University?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Last I heard.’

  ‘Overnight the skull to her, would you?’

  While Mackie returned his attention to the ankle bone, Gilchrist stared at the skull. If anyone could put a face to this missing woman, Dr Heather Black could. Until then, he would have to go with what he had.

  ‘Did you find anything on the cigarette lighter?’ he asked.

  Mackie shook his head. ‘One of those lighters you used to buy for ten a penny at Woolies.’

  ‘What about the markings?’

  ‘Inconclusive. Rusted to buggery. The scratches don’t spell out the name of the killer, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Mackie slid the ankle bone back into place, then brushed a finger over the healed fracture as if trying to determine how painful it must have been.

  Something in that action had Gilchrist wondering if it was ever too late to change careers. Rather than experience hardening him, Gilchrist found he had developed a weak stomach for the sights and smells of the mortuary. The memory of one recent postmortem was still fresh in his mind. He had been at a fiftieth the night before and consumed too many beers, as usual. The following morning, pale and heavy-stomached, he faced the decomposing body of a woman recovered from the River Eden and missing for ten days. When Mackie slapped her brain on to the scales with a splashy flourish, it was too much for Gilchrist. He had turned, too late, and vomited as he staggered away.

  Relief surged through him when his mobile rang, then sank when he recognized Mo’s number. He tried to keep his voice light. ‘Hi, Mo.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come back to the clubhouse? Everyone was expecting you.’

  ‘Everyone?’ he said, pushing through the door. ‘I didn’t know anyone.’

  ‘It’s not like you’d have had to have a political debate or anything.’

  He resisted reciting his usual excuse of being too busy. ‘I know, Mo. I’m sorry.’

  ‘If you ever gave Harry a chance, Dad, you’d like him. I know you would.’

  Gilchrist burst into early-afternoon sunlight, the sky bright through a narrow clearing of clouds. Harry’s name being spoken by his daughter still fired some primitive instinct through his system. Gail had left him for Harry, had taken their children with her. Why would Maureen think he would ever give Harry a chance? He tried to keep his voice level. ‘I’ll make a point of talking to him next time we meet.’

  ‘Don’t give me lip service, Dad. I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m not, Mo, I’m—’

  ‘Mum and Harry were married for seven years, Dad. They were happy together. Did you ever think about that?’

  All the time, he thought. ‘I know Harry was good for Mum,’ he said. ‘He’s going to miss her. We all are.’ He opened his car door, sat behind the wheel,
pleased that his words appeared to have quietened her. He tried to shift the subject by asking, ‘How are you and Jack holding up?’

  A sniff, then, ‘OK. How about you?’

  ‘Hanging in there.’ He stabbed the key into the ignition, gave a twist and the engine fired into life. ‘Thinking back on the good times,’ he went on. ‘When you both were little.’

  When Maureen next spoke, her voice was as tight as a child’s. ‘Mum tried to put a face on it, Dad. But she was so ill. It was awful. Just watching her. There was nothing we could do.’

  Nothing we could do. He remembered intending to call last week, then deciding against it. What could he have done? In the end they had all felt helpless.

  ‘When did you last see Mum?’ he asked.

  ‘The Sunday before . . .’ Her breath brushed the mouthpiece.

  ‘Was she asleep when she died?’ Why did he have to know the details?

  ‘Mum slipped away,’ she said. ‘It was peaceful at the end.’

  He caught an image of Gail glaring at him through eyes sunk deep in a skeletal face.

  ‘Will you speak to Harry?’ she said.

  Her question surprised him. ‘I don’t see the need.’

  ‘Not even to convey your condolences?’

  ‘We shook hands at the crematorium—’

  ‘Barely, Dad. That doesn’t count. You almost ran out of the place.’

  The speed with which Maureen’s emotions shifted never failed to amaze him. It was like listening to Gail all over again. On the upside, it was a sign of Maureen’s recovery. He had to take that from it. Then it hit him with a clarity that stunned him that he was through trying to understand why Gail left. He had was through trying to work out why she hated him. He was just through. Gail was gone, now nothing more than a memory, her face and body and barely remembered smile only images on long-forgotten photographs. He wished he had called at Christmas, spoken to her at New Year, maybe even paid her one last visit in the summer.

  ‘You’re right, Mo. I should’ve been more considerate.’

  ‘Harry loved Mum. He really looked after her.’

  Gilchrist struggled to keep quiet.

  ‘And she loved him,’ she pressed on. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  He almost asked why she would tell him that, as if she blamed him for their divorce. After all, Gail was the one who’d had the affair. But he had travelled that road with Maureen before and knew he was on a losing ride. Instead, he said, ‘I know.’

  His submission seemed to work. ‘I know you loved Mum, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you must be hurting, too. But Harry took care of her, you know.’

  Hearing those words hurt. If he had been there for Gail, been there when she needed him, instead of working the case of the day, would their marriage have survived?

  ‘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.’