by Muir, T. F.
His throat and lungs still felt clogged with soot, and he hawked up a gob of blackened phlegm, walked to the end of the lane and spat into a clump of weeds. He ran his hand across his mouth and eyed the scene.
Betson had been removed to the hospital, his wife by his side, and the fire brigade had converted the lane into a temporary storage unit. Three firemen were still clearing the garage of debris and junk, while another two clambered on top of the lock-ups, tracking down telltale flumes. With quick action from Betson’s neighbours, the fire had been contained to Betson’s garage only, and as the concrete floor continued to be cleared, the MGB GT stood alone, its blaze paintwork bubbled and blackened in the firemen’s spotlight.
Gilchrist entered the garage and ran his hand over the front panel. The front bumper jutted out from the chassis, and he thought it might be possible for it to be damaged in a hit-and-run while the headlights were not touched. Linda Melrose mentioned nothing about the lights being different. If one headlight had been broken, she would have noticed on the drive home, would she not? Or had she been too drunk? He moved to the front nearside, the part most likely to clip a pedestrian, and tried to imagine what his brother might have heard, might have done, as the car powered its way into him.
Had he tried to jump out of the way? Had the car swerved and hit him?
Or had he been overpowered by murderous guilt and stepped into its path?
Gilchrist’s mind whispered Linda Melrose’s words.
I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
Distracted by a pair of legs, and a life lost for ever.
He ran his hand over the bonnet. Although some paintwork had blistered, by the headlights it was fine. Why had Fairclough asked about stripping the front end? The vital evidence that would put his brother’s death to rest was something to do with the front panel, of that Gilchrist was certain.
CHAPTER 17
Gilchrist won the jurisdictional fight over the MGB on the basis that it might have been involved in a fatal hit-and-run accident within the town of St Andrews. However, the idea that this car might now be the cause of two deaths worried him. Betson’s third-degree burns to his face, neck and shoulders had landed him in intensive care, and Gilchrist had seen enough burns victims to know he might not pull through.
He stood back as the tow-truck driver hauled the MGB from the garage and secured it with chains to the truck’s flatbed. Six spotlights mounted on a bar running across the cabin roof exposed the MGB in all its glistening, yet blistered, glory. Despite the fire, the damage appeared superficial. Paint bubbled along the nearside front panel, door and rear panel like coloured blisters streaked with soot. The bonnet, roof and hatchback boot lid were blackened but not blistered. The wire wheels were scorched, and one of the tyres looked like skin ready to slough. The nearside headlight and bright-work looked intact.
He signed the paperwork and checked that the car was to be delivered to SK Motors, a ramshackle garage in the town of Strathkinness on the outskirts of St Andrews. Shuggie may not run the most profitable business, but when it came to things mechanical, his layman’s terms were like gold in a court of law.
With the MGB secured and Betson removed to the hospital, Gilchrist slid into his Merc, leaving the firemen and neighbours to restock the garage and secure it for the night. He was fifteen minutes from St Andrews when he called Stan.
‘What’s the latest on Fairclough?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid, boss. He’s not at home or work. No one’s heard from him since yesterday. And his mobile’s been disconnected.’
‘You mean the battery’s flat?’
‘No. Disconnected. He called the phone company and cancelled his contract.’
Gilchrist had once tracked a scam artist through the calls he made on his mobile to his girlfriend, and who was now serving two years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But Fairclough was a different animal. Having already killed once and lived with that knowledge for over thirty years, was he now prepared to kill again to keep his freedom?
And yet, something did not fit. Why would Fairclough think anyone would connect him to the fire in Betson’s garage? He would have fled while the fire took hold, and must have thought Gilchrist had been trapped and killed, the car destroyed. So why cancel his phone contract? If he did not want anyone to track him to Betson’s, why not just leave the phone at home? It took a few seconds for Gilchrist’s logic to work out that Fairclough must have cancelled his phone contract before the arson attack, and that he had a different SIM card, one of a number that were more than likely untraceable.
‘Call the press, Stan,’ he said. ‘Tell them we want to question Fairclough about a hit-and-run accident in the sixties. And get them to run it beside a story about a garage fire.’
‘What garage fire, boss?’
Gilchrist explained. ‘And tell them to lay it on thick,’ he added.
‘Will do, boss. One other thing. I’ve now got hold of old Donnie’s records. I’ve had a look at them, but nothing jumps out at me. I had to hand the originals over to Greaves, but I made you a copy.’
‘Why does Greaves want the originals?’
‘I’m not sure. But something’s going on, boss. They’ve got Tosh working with some high-flying chief inspector they pulled in from Tayside.’
Gilchrist felt something skip in his chest. Pulling in a senior CI from another Force signalled the start of an internal investigation. Why had Chief Superintendent Greaves done that? And why had Greaves wanted old Donnie’s original records, which were all to do with Gilchrist’s case? Was he about to initiate an investigation into Gilchrist, or some other member of his team? Were these questions related, or were they simply coincidental? But just as troubling was the inclusion of Tosh.
As if in tune with his thoughts, Stan said, ‘Have you ever wondered how Tosh has managed to keep his job? His record is next to useless.’
‘What are you not telling me?’
‘It’s only just been revealed that his wife’s uncle and McVicar are stepbrothers.’
Gilchrist took a moment to digest Stan’s words. Assistant Chief Constable Archie McVicar. Tough but fair, a man who went by the rules. He would not bend any rules for nepotism, of that Gilchrist was certain. But if an internal investigation was about to start, Tosh was the last person Gilchrist wanted to be pitted against.
‘Where are you, Stan?’
‘At home.’
‘Do you have Donnie’s records with you?’
‘Where else, boss?’
‘I’ll pick them up in ten minutes.’
Back at his cottage in Crail, Gilchrist took off his clothing in the bathroom. His leather jacket stank as if it had been smoked, and was torn and scratched beyond repair. Stripped naked, he was astonished to find that even his underpants smelled of smoke and soot. He threw the lot into the wash to soak overnight.
He showered, and examined his new cuts and bruises.
He had almost lost one fingernail on his right hand, and the palms of both hands were sliced and scarred with skelfs that he removed as best he could. A nasty cut on the back of his shoulder had him wincing with pain when he wiped the wound clean. He applied some antibiotic cream, but no bandage, deciding to let the air do its stuff, then a dollop or two on the fingernail, which he covered with a plaster. His right cheek blushed as if slapped, and felt tender. He rubbed some cream over it, figuring it might scab in a day or two. A limp that seemed to originate from somewhere deep in his left hip forced him to take his time.
Was he too old for this any more?
By the time he was seated at the dining table, stripped to the waist, with old Donnie’s records laid out in front of him, it was almost midnight. The list was hand-printed on the letterhead of an architectural firm that bore the same name as Donnie’s. He flicked through a total of eleven pages, all neatly printed and in chronological order, starting in June 1965 and ending in September 1985. He was not sure what he expected to find, but found himself searching for any name that jum
ped out at him, like Pennycuick or Grant. And it struck him how readily his mind was prepared to settle on these two.
He came across neither, but found Kelly’s name and home address in the States after Jack’s, his own old home address. Kelly’s phone number, too, was the same as he’d already dialled. Next on the list was Rita Sanderson and an address in Wales, a convolution of consonants and vowels he could not pronounce. He recognized with a flicker of surprise the third person who had shared the flat with them that year. Lorena Cordoba.
He had met her only a few times, once when Jack had brought all his flatmates home for New Year, several months before the fatal hit-and-run. He recalled her being a slight woman, anorexic in appearance, with the black silken hair of the South Americas. And he remembered being surprised that she could not speak much English, and that she would choose to live in a foreign country so alien to her homeland.
He felt a cold frisson as he eyed her home address, and country.
Mexico.
He scanned the records again.
Mexico? He had always thought Lorena was South American. He read the phone number and wondered if it was possible. After all this time, could she still live at the same address, still have the same telephone number?
Two minutes later, he had the international code for Mexico. He dialled the number.
‘¿Aló?’ A woman’s voice.
He tried, ‘Lorena Cordoba?’
‘¿Córdoba?’
‘Yes. Lorena Cordoba. You speak English?’
‘¿Aló? ¿Quién llama?’
‘Can I speak to Lorena, please?’
‘¿Lorena? ¿Quién llama? ¿Aló?’
‘Lorena? I want to speak to Lorena?’
‘Creo que tiene el número equivocado.’
The call was cut.
If he had asked for a dead-end he could not have found a better one.
Or was it?
Kelly’s mother had received a postcard from Mexico. Could Lorena have mailed it? Was she somehow involved in Kelly’s murder? Gilchrist stood, walked around the table, letting that thought fire his mind. Lorena had been small, verging on fragile, surely too small to manhandle Kelly’s dead body.
But what if she had a boyfriend?
That thought stopped him. Lorena had been attractive; nice features, smooth skin and a permanent tan. But in the few times he had seen her, he could not remember her being with a boyfriend.
He glanced at his watch. Twelve twenty-nine. How inconsiderate could he be? If he was any man at all, he would wait until the morning.
He found her number stored in his mobile.
‘Hello?’ her Welsh sing-song voice said.
He thought she sounded awake. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour.’
‘Andy? Is that you?’
‘It is. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK, I couldn’t sleep. I can’t get Kelly out of my mind.’
‘Do you mind if I scratch your memory again?’
‘Scratch away.’
‘Do you remember the fourth flatmate in St Andrews?’
‘Barely. It wasn’t Lorna, but it was something like that.’
‘Lorena?’
‘That’s it. But don’t ask me her last name.’
‘What was she like? I mean, did you ever see her with anyone?’
‘She was odd, I remember that much. She didn’t speak very good English, which didn’t help. But I remember seeing her with one boy she used to go out with.’
‘Boy?’
‘Man. But young-looking. Not much facial hair. No sideburns, that sort of thing.’
‘You have a name?’
‘I’m hopeless with names.’
She had to know more, he thought. He just hadn’t asked the right question. ‘Describe him,’ he said. ‘Was he Scottish?’
‘Yes.’
Well, at least that was a start. ‘Dark hair? Blonde hair? Any hair?’
She laughed out loud, a sharp surprise. ‘Dirty blonde,’ she said. ‘Almost light brown. Whenever I saw him he always looked unclean, like his hair needed washing or combing.’
‘Were they going out?’
‘You could say. But they never seemed close, if you get my meaning. I never saw them holding hands. Even when they were together, they hardly spoke to each other. I remember thinking it was a really odd relationship.’
‘Were they having sex?’
‘Now how would I know about that?’
‘I meant, did he sleep over?’
‘Not that I recall. She kept herself to herself, and often she would slip out without letting anyone know. Kind of creepy when I think about it. But back then we had plenty to keep ourselves occupied.’
‘Was he a local?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘A student?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘What height was he?’
‘I’m no good with heights.’
‘Small, medium, large?’
‘Medium.’
‘Less than six foot?’
‘Definitely.’
Gilchrist paused. ‘So he was more small than tall,’ he confirmed. ‘Fat?’
‘No. Skinny. Like her.’
Gilchrist ran through his notes. He was looking for a skinny, medium-built Scotsman, scruffy, with light brown hair. He might as well look for a sheep in a white flock—
‘There is one more thing I remember,’ she said. ‘He had bad teeth.’
‘In what way?’
‘It was really noticeable, especially when they were together. Lorena had such white teeth, and his were so yellow.’
‘Any missing?’
‘No. Just yellow.’
‘Crooked? Buck-toothed?’
‘No. Just normal.’
They talked for a few minutes more, but he sensed Rita had given him as much as she could. He thanked her and asked her to call if she remembered anything else, to which she elicited a promise from him to keep in touch.
He revisited his notes. The more he puzzled over them, the more distant the answer seemed. Sleep crept up on him, urging him to lay his head on his hands. His muscles ached from their recent abuse, and his right hand felt as if it was on fire. He flexed his fingers, expecting to see the seeping telltale signs of infection, but all his cuts looked clean.
He fingered his cheek. It felt tender, nothing more than a graze from flesh on wood. His back hurt, and his spine seemed to have locked. He had to stretch upright, arms in the air, twisting at the waist, before he felt any comfort. He resisted the urge to have a Scotch nightcap, and limped off to his bedroom.
As he drifted off, his last waking image was of a thin Mexican woman smiling up at him. And in that smile he thought he saw the reflection of her lover with the yellow teeth.
CHAPTER 18
Gilchrist opened his eyes.
Overhead, his Velux window glistened with rain. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but his body seemed not to work.
He twisted his head, squinted one eye at his radio alarm. Seven forty-two.
He ran his hand around the back of his neck, felt the dampness of sweat and worried that he was running a fever. Feet on the floor, up and over to the bathroom, his body racking with coughs that brought up phlegm as black as coal. He popped a couple of Ibuprofen and downed them with a handful of cold water.
Showered and shaved, he dialled Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary and managed to get through to Betson’s ward. Betson had survived the night but was still in critical condition. Gilchrist thanked the nurse and was about to call Stan when his mobile rang.
He recognized the North Street number.
‘You’re wanted at the office.’
It took Gilchrist a full second to place the voice as Tosh’s, and one more for him to decide against hanging up. If Greaves was in any way involved, he had better be careful.
‘Wanted by whom?’ he asked.
‘Oh, listen to that. Wanted by whom?’ A pause, then, ‘You’re wanted by
me. DI Walter MacIntosh. That’s whom. And let’s make sure there’s no misunderstanding about what’s what. I couldn’t give a flying fuck how far up the ladder you think you are. You’d better get that smarmy arse of yours to the office pronto, or I swear I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.’
‘In your dreams, Tosh.’
‘Try nightmares, Gilchrist. I’m gonnie nail you this time.’
The connection went dead.
Nightmares? Gilchrist almost smiled.
If he had only known.
‘This is Chief Inspector Jeffrey Randall,’ Tosh began.
Gilchrist took Randall’s hand. The grip felt dry and firm.
‘Jeff’s from the Complaints and Discipline Department, and assisting me with our enquiries.’
‘Into what, exactly?’
Tosh smiled. ‘We’re coming to that. But first I’d like to show you these.’
Silent, Gilchrist watched Tosh remove a number of X-ray images from a large yellow envelope and slap them on to the table in front of him.
Gilchrist stared at the images for a moment, before picking them up.
Someone’s dental records. He read the name printed in felt-tip pen along the bottom.
Not just any someone. His brother Jack’s.
He slid them back to Tosh. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Wrong question. Try why?’
Gilchrist let his gaze shift to Randall, then back to Tosh, trying to play his best poker face. He would be damned if he was going to be forced to play Tosh’s game.
Tosh pulled the X-rays to him. ‘Didn’t know your brother had a crown.’
‘He had two, actually.’
Tosh nodded. ‘But I’m more interested in this,’ he said, stabbing a finger at the X-rays. ‘A missing tooth. Upper right.’ He squinted at the X-ray image. ‘And the date’s intriguing. Extracted on 19 February 1969.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’