Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘Near as damn it. But we’ll know soon enough.’

  He thanked Mackie for calling and told him to keep in touch.

  JG. So, there he had it. Or had he?

  The initials could be those of the murdered woman. That was the simple explanation, of course. But the fact that they also matched Jeanette Pennycuick’s maiden name forced Gilchrist’s logic along a different path.

  Perhaps the lighter had belonged to Jeanette but been borrowed by her then boyfriend, Geoffrey. Pennycuick visited St Andrews, and the dates fitted. And if the woman had been a student, like Jeanette, Pennycuick could have met her, perhaps even been intimate with her. Geoffrey’s a serial shagger, Betty’s voice reminded him. Could they have had a liaison that ended in violence, with Geoffrey murdering the woman, battering her to death with a bedside lamp to keep their affair secret from his wealthy wife-to-be? Sex is always a grand motive, Mackie’s voice confirmed. Before you know where you are he has a fit and batters her to death.

  Was that what had happened?

  And the fact that the cigarette lighter did not point to Pennycuick, but to his wife, did not deflate Gilchrist. Pennycuick was devious, of that Gilchrist was certain, the sort of man who might cover his trail at the expense of others. How simple would it have been to take his girlfriend’s lighter and place it in the grave? Or take any lighter and scratch his girlfriend’s initials on it? But again, and this was the troubling aspect, why even take the chance? Why risk pointing the finger of accusation so close to home? Why not use someone else’s initials?

  But Gilchrist thought he knew the answer to that conundrum, too.

  Geoffrey Pennycuick believed he was better than everyone else, and if he was ever challenged he would deny it with condescending arrogance. Pennycuick was the kind of man Gilchrist loathed, and he would just love to place him under arrest. And wouldn’t Betty be delighted if he added sexual harassment to the charge?

  But doubt still tickled his mind. He dialled Nance’s mobile.

  ‘Do you have anyone on your list with the initials IG or JC?’ he asked her.

  He listened to something brush the mouthpiece, a clump as the phone was laid down, then a rustling of sorts, like pages being flicked through.

  Her voice returned. ‘Nope.’

  Gilchrist instructed her to go through the university registers again and make a list of everyone with the initials JG with a three-year spread either side of thirty-five years ago.

  ‘Bloody hell, Andy.’

  ‘My thoughts, too.’

  Creating such a list was all good and well, he thought, provided the killer had in fact been a student at St Andrews. They could check other records, of course, but all of a sudden, the task of identifying the victim from an ageing skeleton by filtering a pile of out-of-date information seemed too daunting to be conceivable. Were they even on the right track? Had the killer been a student back then? Or a visitor to St Andrews? Or someone who lived in St Andrews but had not gone to the university? Or who lived nearby? Gilchrist had nothing to confirm the killer was a student, male, female, old, young, local or visitor. Still, the initials on the lighter could be the break they were looking for.

  But despite his best efforts to think beyond that daunting task, Gilchrist could not lift his spirits.

  Darkness settled over the Fife coastline like a prison blanket. The temperature had dropped close to freezing, and a haar fogged the air like fine mist. Seagulls cried from the invisible distance.

  In the Central Bar he ordered a portion of steak pie and chips and a pint of Eighty-Shilling. He remembered Gina Belli saying she would be in the Central around seven, and he thought of taking a seat in a corner at the back so that she might not see him and leave. But in the end he chose a bench seat near the door.

  He called Stan for an update, only to be told that Pennycuick appeared to be as clean as his starched white shirts. ‘Keep at it,’ he said, and grimaced as Stan grunted and hung up.

  Nance seemed just as frustrated.

  ‘Why don’t you join me in the Central for a beer?’ he offered.

  She paused long enough to make him think she wanted nothing more to do with him, then surprised him by saying, ‘Give me five minutes.’ But the tone of her voice warned him that all was not well.

  He had finished his steak pie and was on his second Eighty-Shilling when Nance eventually joined him, pushing her way on to the bench seat and sidling up close enough for their thighs to touch. But the look on her face told him she wanted to sit close so that no one could hear what she was about to say.

  ‘Beer?’ he tried.

  She shook her head. ‘Coffee only.’

  ‘Changed days.’

  ‘I’m on duty.’

  Well, that said it all right there, he thought. He breathed in her perfume, a fragrance that brought back memories of late nights and secret rendezvous, and he resisted the urge to squeeze her thigh. Instead, he looked around him, at students drinking beer, knocking back spirits as clear as water. And smoking cigarettes, too. He inhaled, searching for the dry hit of secondary smoke. He found some, breathed it in, almost closed his eyes.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Nance said.

  ‘You haven’t had your coffee yet,’ he replied, and thought he sounded like a man searching for the last straw to clutch.

  Her short smile spilled from her face.

  ‘Did you get anywhere with the initials?’ he tried, feeling he was only delaying the inevitable.

  She shook her head in dismay. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were trying to bore the pants off me.’

  ‘Seems to be the only way these days,’ he joked, and from the tightening of her lips wished he had not even tried.

  She turned to face him, and he had a sense that the moment was upon him.

  ‘Look, Andy,’ she began, ‘I think we—’

  ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ Gina Belli smiled down at them, her gaze shimmying over Nance’s face as she pulled out the seat opposite and sat.

  Nance pushed away from the table and stood. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said to Gilchrist, and shoved past Gina without a backward glance.

  Gina watched her go, her mouth forming an ugly grimace that Gilchrist thought did not suit her. She sat, lifting one bare leg over the other, skirt riding high on muscled thigh, and removed a packet of Marlboro Lights from her bag. She flipped it open and pulled out a filter cigarette. ‘Not a bit young for you?’

  ‘She’s one of my team,’ he growled. ‘So don’t even go there.’

  ‘Purely professional, I’m sure.’

  He said nothing as she lit up with a deep draw that sucked in her cheeks, then clicked her lighter shut – not a cheap plastic Woolworth’s lighter like the one in the grave, but one that looked as solid and heavy as gold, with initials on the corner, a collection of tiny diamond studs that formed GB. He saw, too, that by not offering him a cigarette she was telling him she knew he had given up smoking. She could probably tell him the exact date, time and place.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  She turned her head, exhaled a stream of smoke as blue as a car’s exhaust. ‘I thought we had a date.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’

  ‘I’m here. You’re here.’ Another pull on her Marlboro.

  Gilchrist knew it was pointless arguing.

  ‘You look as though you’d like me to leave,’ she said.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘How about I get myself a drink?’ She stood and sidled to the bar, her skirt tight, her underwear embossed on its fabric. When she returned, she plonked a gin and tonic on the table. ‘Mind if I join you?’ she quipped.

  He waited until she sat. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You could tell me to fuck off, but you’re way too polite to say that to a woman.’

  ‘I’ve been known to be rude.’

  She took another hit of her Marlboro, pulling long and hard, then stubbed t
he cigarette into an ashtray that Gilchrist had shoved to the end of the table. ‘By all accounts you’re a nice guy,’ she said, ‘which made me wonder, what’s a nice guy like you doing in a shitty job like this?’ She held his gaze, long enough for him to feel a growing need to look away.

  He picked up his pint, eyed her over the rim. ‘It pays the bills,’ he said at length, ‘and keeps me busy. Which means I won’t be staying here for long.’

  ‘Business, business.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s not good for you, Andy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’

  Gilchrist caught her emphasis on the word Jack, and replaced his glass to the table with a crack harder than intended. He glared at eyes that stared back at him, and wondered just what was going on in that sharp mind of hers.

  ‘You wanted to ask me something,’ he said.

  ‘I want your agreement to write about you and your cases.’ She retrieved her Marlboros, tapped one on the table and lit up with deliberation. Her gold lighter snapped shut, its studded diamonds glinting like a misplaced cluster. She leaned back in her seat, blew smoke across the table. ‘I think I’m being reasonable.’

  ‘Why do you need my approval? Why not go ahead and write whatever you like? You’re going to do that anyway.’

  ‘Professional pride.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’

  ‘You’ve got me wrong, Andy. I’m—’

  ‘Oh no I’ve bloody well not I’ve got you spot on is what I have. You’re a manipulative bitch who’ll do anything to get what she wants.’ The words were out before he could stop himself. He sat back, stunned by the force of his anger. It was the thought of her digging into his brother’s accident that had him fired up. Or perhaps it was her interruption of Nance’s imminent dismissal of him.

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry.’ He jerked a smile. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just . . .’

  ‘Stressed out?’ Her face broke into a grin.

  ‘Most people would have taken offence at what I said.’

  ‘I’m not most people.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the American in you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She lifted her gin and tonic and eyed him as she finished it off. Then she replaced the empty glass to the table like a chess player about to declare check mate. ‘Not going to buy me another?’

  He felt regret at his burst of anger, and relief at the opportunity to make small amends. ‘Seeing as how it’s you,’ he said, and slid from his seat. He ordered another pint for himself and a gin and tonic with plenty of ice. As he watched his pint being pulled, he called Maureen on his mobile.

  ‘Thought I’d call,’ he said. ‘See if you wanted to come up and stay a few days in the cottage. Longer, if you’d like.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Again, no explanation. He eyed his reflection in the mirror on the back wall, thought he looked disappointed. What had he expected? ‘It’s been a while,’ he tried. ‘You should take some time off. Get away from it all. Give yourself a break.’

  A pause, then, ‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll think about it.’

  He knew he could press no further. If he did, Maureen could retreat into that black hole of hers. He wanted to tell her that one day it would be so far in the past that it would mean nothing. But he wondered if it ever would. Defeated, he said, ‘Give me a call when you can,’ then told her he loved her and hung up.

  Back at the table, he noticed Gina on her third Marlboro. Or was it her fourth? The impulse to ask for one had him holding his pint with both hands, not trusting himself.

  ‘So, I have your approval?’ she said to him.

  Gilchrist tilted his pint, took a long mouthful.

  ‘As you said,’ she pressed on, ‘I don’t really need it. But it could work to your advantage.’

  Now she had him puzzled. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I would be more considerate about how I address your brother’s accident. I’d let you review the draft before it goes to print.’

  ‘You know my views on that.’

  ‘I do.’ She exhaled, smoke fogging her face, then narrowed her eyes. ‘Jack would have been fifty-four next May. The fifteenth.’

  Gilchrist studied his pint in silence.

  ‘He was killed by a hit-and-run driver,’ she continued. ‘The Traffic Accident Report confirmed that pieces from a broken headlamp identified the car as an MGB GT, and slivers of paint confirmed the car was blaze. That orange colour was popular back then. Probably F or G registration.’ She sipped her gin and tonic and stared at him.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The accident happened in April ’69. Here, in St Andrews. You were twelve. Jack was about to turn eighteen. It was that single failure of the local police to find the hit-and-run driver that led you to become a detective.’

  Gilchrist held her gaze.

  ‘Jack’s death has haunted you ever since.’

  ‘If you want to write that,’ he said, ‘go ahead. You have my permission.’

  She leaned across the table. ‘I want to know how you felt, Andy. I want to know how many nights you cried yourself to sleep, how often you visited the scene of the accident, how often you went to the police. But most of all,’ and she leaned closer like a conspirator planning a murder, ‘I want to know what you wrote.’

  Gilchrist tried to keep the surprise from his face.

  She pulled herself back, drew on her Marlboro as if she needed to inhale its fire to live, then exhaled through her nose. ‘I know about the diaries you kept after Jack.’

  He shook his head. ‘There was nothing in them except childish gibberish. Besides,’ he said, and gave a wry smile, ‘I threw them away.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  He almost laughed. ‘Those diaries were destroyed years ago.’

  ‘No, they weren’t.’

  He frowned. He had kept the diaries for years, even after he married, forgotten them, then discovered them brown-paged and dusty in the attic when he sold the matrimonial home after Gail moved to Glasgow. Then it struck him. Gina must have spoken to Gail. But Gail had been ill for months. ‘So when did you speak to my ex-wife?’ he asked.

  Another draw that pinched her cheeks to the shape of her skull. She crossed her legs, giving Gilchrist a flash of white knickers, then turned her head and exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘About six months ago.’

  Gilchrist frowned. What else did she know about him?

  ‘Here’s what I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘Your exclusive authorization to write your story.’

  ‘A biography, you mean.’

  ‘More than just your run-of-the-mill biography. I want a detailed account of how you solved your most famous cases. I want you to tell me about this sixth sense of yours—’

  ‘There’s nothing magical about it,’ he complained. ‘It’s just logical deduction.’

  ‘That’s not how I hear it.’ She drew on her Marlboro, chinned her shoulder and blew it out. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I know all about sixth senses. And then some.’

  Gilchrist took a sip of beer, not liking the subject.

  ‘And I want sight of all your diaries,’ she pressed on. ‘In return, we split all royalties fifty-fifty. I’ll have my publisher draw up a contract for your solicitor. Once everyone’s happy, we sign. Then we talk, and I start to write.’ She leaned on the table. ‘Sound fair?’

  Gilchrist glared back at her, resisting the urge to push his pint away and leave. He could almost make out his reflection in the dark pools of her eyes, just about see his puzzled frown work its way across his forehead. He looked away from her, stared at his pint, picked it up, put it down. Then he held her gaze again.

  ‘Problem?’ she asked.

  He had never understood how his thought processes worked, this gut-driven feeling that twisted his insides and forced his logic down one path to reach its conclusion at the expense of all others. Perhaps it was her persistence over his brother’s accident, or the way her hands moved or her fingers shifted when she click
ed her diamond-studded lighter. But something had triggered his thoughts, worked away at some level deep in the chasms of his mind, almost out of reach of all conscious logic.

  He flipped open his mobile, pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, half aware of the victory smile on her face, as if she knew what he was thinking.

  But how could she? How could anyone?

  As he waited for his call to be answered, he walked to the centre of Market Street, breathed in the cold October night, all of a sudden conscious of the heavy pounding in his chest. His convoluted logic had come up with a ridiculous conclusion. He was wrong. He had to be.

  But he needed to make sure.

  ‘Mackie speaking.’

  ‘Bert,’ snapped Gilchrist. ‘The lighter. Do you still have it?’

  ‘What’s got you fired—’

  ‘Bert. Please. Have you?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Gilchrist took a deep breath, then let it out in a long release, trying to slow the chatter of his heart. He paced the cobbles in the middle of the road, then faced the Central, the lights from within a warm contrast to the frost in the air, his breath fogging in the cold like steam.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ grumbled Mackie. ‘What about it?’

  Gilchrist looked to the sky, gave a silent prayer. ‘On the bottom,’ he said. ‘On the edge. Is it nicked?’

  ‘Nicked?’

  ‘Yes. Nicked.’ He could think of no other word. He pressed his mobile to his ear, could almost hear Mackie study the lighter with his magnifying glass. He stepped out of the way of a passing car and returned to the bar entrance. He reached out, gripped the door frame. Just in case.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mackie. ‘It is.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Looks like three.’

  ‘All on the same edge?’

  ‘One on one edge, and two on the opposite edge.’

  Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. He hung up. How was it possible? He looked around him, as if searching for the answer in the night shadows.

  JG. Not Geoffrey Pennycuick. Not Jeanette Grant.

  Three nicks. Two on one edge, one on the other. Conclusive. Unarguable.