Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  ‘At you?’

  ‘No. Just a fuck, then click.’

  Why had Fairclough asked if the headlights had been changed or the front end stripped? He would have repaired the broken headlights himself before selling the car on. But had the front end been damaged in the accident as well?

  All of a sudden, he saw other possibilities.

  ‘What year is the car?’

  ‘Sixty-eight,’ said Betson. ‘And in great nick,’ he added, and launched into his sales spiel.

  Silent, Gilchrist listened to Betson quote brake horsepower, engine size in cubic inches and cubic centimetres, length of wheelbase, turning circle and a litany of other things that Gilchrist could not care less about. He could hardly wait to call Stan, get him to check something out for him.

  And all the while the Mercedes was eating the miles to Betson’s home.

  Stan called Gilchrist back before he reached Edinburgh.

  ‘You were right, boss. McKinley, who bought the car from Fairclough, said it had a dent in the front end, which he patched up himself.’

  ‘Patched up?’

  ‘Hammered out, buffed down, repainted. His own words.’

  Gilchrist gripped the steering wheel, eyed the road ahead.

  Was it possible? After all these years?

  By the time Gilchrist reached his destination, night had fallen.

  Betson’s garage was remote from the house, one of a row of identical lock-ups that lined a cobbled lane at the back of the tenement building. Light from the kitchen windows cast a dim glow over parts of the lane. Each lock-up seemed too narrow to park a car in, the turning circle too tight. A number on a metal plate screwed into the frame above double wooden doors matched Betson’s home address.

  ‘Here we are.’ Betson inserted a key into a rusted padlock. ‘Haven’t had a look at it for some time, but back here’s as safe as houses. We’ve lived here for over thirty years and never had a spot of bother. Not even any graffiti. Amazing, when you think about it.’

  Gilchrist eyed the narrow lane. The lock-ups extended in a row to a high stone wall that bordered the back gardens of houses one street over. On the opposite side of the lane, a wall as high as the other bounded Betson’s building. The lane faded to a dark mouth as it kinked on a forty-five-degree bend out of sight to the main road. Betson’s garage sat at the farthest end, where the lane dead-ended against the back of a brick building. No matter how skilful the driver, manoeuvring in and out of any of these garages had to be a feat in itself.

  Most of the lock-ups were secured with rusting padlocks and wooden doors that seemed to have taken root among the weeds. Paint and slivers of wood had flaked off at the foot of Betson’s garage door, but the cobbles fronting it had the worn pattern of wood scraping stone.

  Someone could die back here, and remain undiscovered for days.

  ‘When did you say you were last down here?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Months ago. Just after Easter, I think.’

  ‘Looks like these doors have been opened recently.’

  ‘That would be the wife. She’s forever stacking stuff down here.’

  Betson hooked the opened padlock on to the clasp, the key dangling from it like an earring, and eased one of the doors open. The strangely pleasant smell of petrol and oil mixed with ageing leather hit Gilchrist.

  ‘There’s a light switch in here,’ Betson’s voice came back at him.

  The inside of the garage opened up to Gilchrist like Aladdin’s cave.

  Folded tables, chairs, cardboard cartons stacked with comics, books, children’s toys, lined both sides of a grey tarpaulin stretched across the ghostly outline of some low-slung vehicle. Framed pictures and posters wrapped in tissue paper perched on the tarpaulin, as if placed there as an afterthought.

  Betson pushed his way through the muddle like a man wading through water, to squeeze past a rusted barbecue stand, a bag of golf clubs, then step over what looked like a chaise longue, its yellow fabric spotted with oil or mould. A gunmetal toolbox sat in the mildewed folds of a garden umbrella that lay like a quilt over boxes of comics.

  Gilchrist followed.

  ‘The wife refuses to throw stuff away,’ Betson said to him. ‘If you’re going to keep that car, she says, then I’m going to keep everything else.’ He chuckled. ‘One of these days I’m going to have to clear the lot out. A friend of mine says he could sell it on eBay and make a fortune.’ He grunted as he bent beneath a pedal bike suspended from hooks on the ceiling. ‘Maybe I’ll take him up on that offer. Split the proceeds fifty-fifty. That would be better than having all this stuff just lying here doing nothing.’

  From where Gilchrist stood, the tarpaulin that covered the bonnet and front grille was clear of all jumble, whereas the roof seemed to double as additional storage space. From outside, he thought he heard the grumbling of a running motor echo off the lane’s stone walls.

  ‘Christ knows how we’d manage to live if she couldn’t dump her mess here,’ Betson said. He kicked something out of the way, then bent down. ‘Grab an end, will you?’

  Gilchrist obliged, conscious of a car door shutting in the lane outside. ‘Neighbours?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone’s in the lane.’

  ‘It gets quite busy from time to time.’ Betson steadied himself. ‘When I say three, pull it up and over. OK? One, two, three and up . . .’

  Gilchrist pulled the tarpaulin back and folded it over the front windscreen of a gleaming sports car. The smell of polish engulfed him.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Betson beamed down at his car, fingers caressing the shining metal. ‘God, I should take her out next summer.’

  ‘Thought you wanted to sell it.’

  ‘I do and I don’t,’ Betson said. ‘I’m prepared to let her go for the right price. But other than that, I’m not interested.’

  ‘And the right price is?’

  ‘That’s for you to decide. I have a number in mind, but I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.’

  Gilchrist leaned down to inspect the front headlights. Condensation dotted the inside of the glass like beads of perspiration. ‘The paintwork looks new,’ he said.

  ‘Got her resprayed not long after I bought her.’

  Something slumped in Gilchrist’s stomach. He had expected that, had known it was more than likely. Repainting would have destroyed any evidence of his brother’s hit-and-run. Still, it was amazing that the car was around after all this time. And in such condition. He ran a finger around the rim of the headlights, touched the orange indicator light. The chrome bumper shone like a metal mirror. The car looked showroom-new.

  ‘The person who called earlier,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Would you have any objection if I pulled your phone records to find his number?’

  Betson frowned at Gilchrist. ‘What do you mean?’

  Gilchrist explained that he was with Fife Constabulary investigating a cold case, but did not give further details. ‘And I’d like to impound your car,’ he added.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘We’ll take care of it. Do what we have to do with it, and return it to you. You won’t even have noticed it missing.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like that idea,’ Betson said.

  Gilchrist thought he caught a faint whiff of petrol. ‘I’d like to—’

  The first bottle missed Betson’s face by inches, smashed against the back wall with a hot roar. Gilchrist had time only to shield his face with his arm as flames billowed around him. He heard Betson scream to the floor as flames as fluid as liquid swallowed him, then caught the dull thud of another bottle as it landed unbroken on the roof of the car. Entangled in the picture frames, its lighted rag set off the packing tissue and threatened to flare down the neck of the bottle. Through the orange glare and roiling smoke, Gilchrist caught the silhouette of someone closing the door.

  He backed from the heat of the flames, picked up the bottle on the roof, prayed it would not explode in his hands and threw
it out. Too late, it bounced off the closing door and landed on the concrete floor with an eye-blinding flash.

  The door slammed shut.

  Gilchrist turned to Betson, but already the smoke had created a black fog through which he could see nothing. His eyes stung, his throat burned, and as he fell to his knees he heard the unmistakable click of a padlock being snapped shut.

  The speed with which the contents of the garage ignited almost stopped his heart.

  Flames licked the roofing. Along one wall they jumped from box to box. Toys and gifts stored for years in the dry warmth of the garage were more efficient than fuel-soaked kindling. Comics roared to life, pages curling in the heat. Cardboard boxes squirmed and blackened. Plastic toys flared and melted.

  No time to think. Only to act.

  Back on his feet, he tried to make a run for the door, but the heat from the second bottle was too great. He backed off, felt his face burn. He kneeled and grabbed the tarpaulin.

  Shouting with all his strength, he peeled the tarpaulin back, running it up and over the roof of the car, tilting picture frames and burning paper. The tarp fell from the car like billowing sacking and folded over the flames of the second Molotov cocktail.

  Something popped – the single lightbulb – and the garage went dull for a moment, to be replaced with a hellish landscape of flickering black and orange. Gilchrist kicked the door. It bounced back at him. He tried again. Same result. He slammed his shoulder into it and gasped with pain. The wooden doors may not have looked solid, but they were more than he could burst his way through.

  He slumped to his knees, eyes closed.

  Christ, not like this, he thought. Not trapped and burned alive.

  If he could somehow smother the flames at the other end of the garage, he might have a chance. But where was Betson? He tried to open his eyes, but the heat and the smoke were too much. He crawled on the concrete floor along the side of the car, one hand over his face and mouth, the other outstretched like a blind man’s cane.

  Barbecue stand. He knocked over the golf clubs. Chaise longue, and his fingers groped and curved around the metal toolbox. He picked it up and threw the lot at the door.

  The toolbox burst open and bounced on to the smouldering tarpaulin.

  He fell after it, sprawled among the tools, cut his fingers on the edge of a saw blade. His coughing body contorted. His eyes burned. Fingers of flames tickled overhead and stung him with their dripping touch. He gripped a cold metal handle, felt the head of a claw hammer. His heart soared as he realized this was his way out.

  He swung the hammer at the door, once, twice, but the wood was solid. He staggered to his feet, felt the framework, found the spot where one door met the other and thudded the claw end into the wood.

  He missed. Tried again.

  Missed again. Christ, he was going to die.

  What about Jack? What about Maureen?

  He could no longer find air to breathe, only the acrid fumes of hot, choking smoke that heaved in and out of his lungs with every cough. He thudded the claw hammer into the door one last time, but it bounced off.

  Dear God. This was where it was all going to end.

  He slid to his knees, hammer clasped tight in one hand, its claw head scraping down the wooden—

  It caught.

  He tugged, felt it catch. He tugged again, heard the wood crack, the nails and screws rip free. He pressed the head in deeper, eased the handle back and pulled hard. The door was giving. Dear God, it was giving. He was going to—

  He grunted in pain as the hammer slipped free and his knuckles hit wood. He heard the hammer land with a metallic thud somewhere in the smoke-filled corner. In desperation, he tried tearing the damaged frame with his hands, felt his nails break, his skin tear.

  But he could not pull the wood free, could not break it loose.

  This was it. He was going to die.

  No. Not like this.

  He slumped to the floor, his body wracking with spasms, felt his back hit the car, his feet the garage doors. If he straightened his legs, pushed with his back against the car, he might find enough purchase to force one of the doors open.

  He closed his eyes, pushed and pressed as hard as he could.

  Nothing.

  He could tell from the burning pain in his chest that he was running out of time. The body could keep this up for only so long before succumbing. He tried again, forced his legs straight with his last breath, held it and, with a surge that jolted the length of his spine, his right foot broke through a length of wood close to the ground.

  He kicked again, heard the dry crack of rotted wood, then heard it break and snap. He pulled forward, forced his head through the jagged opening and breathed in air that hit his lungs like ice and had him wracking up phlegm as black as soot. Using the car as leverage, he forced his shoulders through the tight gap, ignoring the slivers of cracked wood that gripped his clothing and tore at his skin.

  He wriggled from the hole, rolled on to the lane, clothes smoking and smouldering.

  Smoke billowed from the hole at his feet like a misplaced chimney.

  Where was Betson?

  He staggered to his feet, grabbed the padlock. The clasp was good and tight. When he pulled one door and pushed against the other, he saw a gap in the frame where none had existed before. He thudded his shoulder to the garage doors, forced them against the hinges.

  They creaked, but bounced back.

  But if he concentrated on one door only?

  He crossed the lane, pressed his back against the wall, took a deep breath and pushed off as hard as he could.

  He hit the door like a battering ram.

  The frame splintered. Hinges tore from the wood, screws hanging loose like stubborn roots. A wall of smoke hit him. The heat almost had him backing off, but he kicked the door loose, broke it from its frame, pulled his jacket around his face and bruised his way back inside the garage.

  The rush of air gave new life to the fire. Flames licked in rising tongues across the garage roof. Beneath, the car seemed to shimmer in the heat. He fell to the floor, hugged the concrete, finding that if he kept his face to the garage floor the smoke did not choke him.

  He wormed along the side of the car, worried that any one of the burning pile of cartons could tip over and trap him. But he made it to the passenger door where he found Betson by feel, lying headlong on the concrete floor. He grabbed his collar, pulled him along the floor like a sack of meat. As he neared the garage door, he knew he could not drag him over the tarpaulin, so he got to his knees, grabbed Betson by his belt with one hand, his collar with the other and hauled him up and over and out into the lane.

  He dropped Betson on to the cobbles and collapsed beside him on his hands and knees, heaving with coughs that seemed to come from the pit of his lungs. A strong hand gripped his shoulder. He grabbed it, ready to tear Fairclough’s throat from his neck, but toppled over.

  Stone cobbles rose up to meet his head with a dull crack.

  He lay there, stunned.

  At that angle, the lane looked as busy as Market Street. Shoes and legs came at him from all sides. A wriggling snake turned itself into a hose that sprayed water from tiny leaks. Something hissed like a rush of air, and the metallic clang of a fire extinguisher told him they were trying to put out the fire.

  A pair of hands helped right his world.

  ‘Is there anyone else inside?’ a man’s voice asked.

  He tried to say, ‘No,’ but coughed instead. He shook his head. ‘Only two of us,’ he managed to whisper.

  ‘He’s badly burned,’ a voice from behind said. ‘He needs to go to the hospital.’

  Gilchrist dragged his hand across his lips, freed phlegm that hung from his chin like slime. ‘A car,’ he tried to say, but it came out as a cough. He cleared his throat, spat a mouthful of soot to the ground. He tugged at the trousers by his side. Warm hands pulled him to his feet.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ the man said. ‘Are you all right?’r />
  Gilchrist choked back a cough. ‘A car,’ he said. ‘Did you see a car?’

  ‘What kind of car?’

  Gilchrist pushed away, removed his mobile, dialled the office.

  ‘Put me through to Stan,’ he rasped, and when Stan came on the line, said, ‘Talk to someone in the correct jurisdiction and have them pick up James Fairclough for questioning. You have his home address.’

  ‘On what grounds, boss?’

  ‘On suspicion of arson.’ He eyed Betson. His head and neck looked like charred plastic, and the side of his face shone tight from blistering skin. But it was the stillness of his body that worried Gilchrist. He coughed again, turned to the stone wall and spat black phlegm over the weeds. ‘It could be upped to murder,’ he added.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Give me a call when it’s done,’ he said, and hung up.

  He checked Betson’s pulse. Alive, but not doing well. He looked up as a woman rushed towards him, almost tripping in her efforts to reach the scene.

  ‘John,’ she cried. ‘John, are you all right?’ Then she was on her knees, cradling Betson’s head in her hands, sobbing and hugging and begging him to waken.

  Gilchrist faced the garage.

  The fire was almost out, but thick smog continued to roll along the ceiling and swell in black billows from cardboard boxes. A young man powered water from a hose into the smoking depths. Pockets of embers popped and exploded in angry bursts before dying under the onslaught. Even from where he stood, Gilchrist could tell that the car had suffered no significant damage. Paint blistered along the sides and roof, and a box had toppled from one of the piles and spread books over the bonnet like lumps of wood. The very material that had fed the fire had acted like a protective blanket in places.

  He hoped the front end was unscathed.

  He approached the man with the hose, showed him his warrant card and ordered him to make sure no one took anything from the garage. Then he returned to his Merc and removed a pair of rubber gloves from the boot.

  Forty minutes later, he had recovered what he could of the Molotov cocktails, and with the help of a local policeman placed the pieces of glass into two separate boxes. He thought it unlikely that Lothian and Borders Police would be able to lift any prints from the glass, but identifying the bottles themselves might give them a lead.