Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  He glanced at his watch. He had no time. For all he knew, Tosh might already have finagled a search warrant for his cottage in Crail, God forbid. That thought had him gritting his teeth and his eyes glued to the road as the Merc zipped through sweeping bends like a greyhound after a hare. Out and past a minibus, and again for three cars that swept past him as if going the other way. He eyed the dash, caught his speed pushing ninety and eased back.

  He reached Crail without mishap, and crawled through the town at the speed limit. Back at his cottage, he powered up his laptop and connected to the Internet. He accessed MapQuest, typed in the address, requested directions from Saratoga Springs and printed out the result. He threw trousers, underpants, socks, shirts, sweaters and a waterproof jacket into a suitcase and his laptop, passport, Donnie’s records and copies of the case files into his computer case.

  In his bedroom, he opened his wardrobe and kneeled on the floor.

  He pulled out a shoe rack to reveal a wall safe. He entered the four-digit code – the months of Jack and Maureen’s birthdays – and pulled out a roll of one-hundred-pound notes. He unravelled twenty and returned the remainder to his stash. From his bedside drawer he removed another mobile phone.

  Five minutes later, he locked the cottage behind him.

  Hasty departures were good reasons not to have pets.

  He took the coastal road south, and called Maureen on his regular mobile.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Long time,’ she said.

  He did not have it in his heart to remind her that she had hung up on his last call. ‘Listen, Mo,’ he said, ‘I’ll be out of town for a few days, heading down to the south coast. If anyone’s looking for me, that’s where I’ll be.’

  ‘OK.’

  He asked how she was holding up after Mum, what she was doing, if she was back at work, but received only grunts in response. After a few more efforts, he said, ‘Got to go, princess. Catch you later. Love you.’

  When he hung up, he swore under his breath. Her psychiatric reports confirmed she was making steady progress. Sometimes he found it difficult to convince himself of that. But she was alive, and she was recovering, no matter how slowly. He had to take that from it at least.

  He called Jack next.

  ‘Heh, Andy, how’s it going, man?’

  ‘Good,’ was all he offered. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Never been better.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘Because you’ve been a policeman too long and you don’t trust anything you hear any more.’

  It pleased him to see that simple things like speaking to his children could still pick him up. ‘If you say so,’ he replied. ‘Listen, Jack, I’m driving down to the south coast for a few days.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Cornwall.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Yes, it will be.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Heh, Andy, have a great time. And don’t forget to call.’

  ‘The phone works both ways, young man.’

  ‘I can never remember your number.’

  ‘Haven’t you got it saved yet?’

  ‘That’s too complicated, man. I prefer the simpler things in life. Beer and sex. But not in that order.’

  ‘Stick to the beer.’

  They exchanged promises and farewells, then hung up.

  He felt bad at having lied to both of them, but if Tosh called for information on their missing father, at least their stories would match.

  He drove straight to Glasgow International Airport and parked in the long stay car park. In the terminal building, he converted fifteen hundred pounds into US dollars, then slipped the lot into his computer case. An airport bus dropped him off at a hotel in Paisley, and he checked in under Harry Jamieson, a combination of his ex-wife’s husband’s name and her unmarried name, and paid for the room with cash. The whole place stank of cigarette smoke, which almost had him tapping his pockets for a packet.

  He resisted the urge to take a walk into town for a pint. The fewer people who saw him, the better. Instead, he had a shower. He eased back the plaster from his finger, pleased to see he was not going to lose his fingernail, and took care not to open his shoulder wound, which was healing nicely. Even his cough seemed to have cleared. But he took another couple of Ibuprofen to stave off any fever.

  Once showered and towelled, he called Edinburgh Royal Infirmary using the room phone, and was assured that Betson was expected to make a recovery. He fought off the urge to call Stan from his new mobile, or the room phone. Either number would appear on the office phone system. Instead, he slipped under the covers and clicked the TV remote.

  He picked up nothing of concern on the evening news, no mention of missing DCIs, or upgrades in Fife’s murder enquiries. He clicked the TV on to mute, picked up the room phone and dialled her number.

  ‘This is becoming a bit of a habit,’ Rita said.

  ‘It’s that accent of yours that I find irresistible.’

  Even her chuckle sounded Welsh. ‘Any luck with your investigation?’

  ‘Still sniffing around,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some more questions?’

  ‘Sniff away.’

  It had been his comment to Stan that made him revisit his deductive reasoning. Jacket and no knickers. Had Kelly been sexually assaulted? But just as troubling was his inability to recall exact dates. When exactly had Jack’s emotions changed? After Kelly disappeared mid-February? Or had it been closer to New Year? Had Kelly taken on a new lover? If so, that raised the possibility, no matter how slender, that Jack had been unable to handle the breakup and killed her in a fit of jealous rage. Was that possible? Could his brother really have been a murderer? And again the thought that Jack had deliberately stepped in front of Fairclough’s MGB slipped into his mind. All of a sudden he was not quite sure how to broach the subject.

  ‘Did Kelly ever confide in you?’ he blurted.

  ‘We were quite close, if that’s what you mean.’

  He thought her evasive response gave him his answer, but he needed to be sure. ‘Did she ever talk to you about seeing anyone else?’

  The pause on the line told him that Rita was having trouble breaking a long-held confidence. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you know if she slept around?’

  ‘While she was with Jack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Andy.’

  ‘But you have your suspicions.’

  She paused long enough to worry him, then said, ‘Andy, I really don’t like this.’

  At last. He had hit on something, or rather, someone. He tried a different tack. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to pry into your personal relationships, but it sounds to me like it might have been someone common to you both.’ He pressed the phone to his ear.

  Silence.

  ‘If I gave you a name, could you just say if I’m wrong or right?’

  She sniffed. Was she crying? ‘Depends.’

  ‘Geoffrey Pennycuick,’ he said.

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Gilchrist frowned. Not quite the answer he had expected. He decided to go straight for the heart. ‘We can do this unofficially,’ he went on, ‘or I can have you brought to the office for a formal interview.’ He let his words sink in. ‘I really don’t want to go down that road.’ He hated lying to her, but she would never know he was suspended. ‘But I’m in charge of a murder investigation. Any information you provide could prove critical.’ Another pause. ‘If it’s personal, it won’t go any further.’

  ‘I can’t tell you, Andy.’

  ‘I will have you pulled in,’ he pressed.

  ‘It won’t do any good,’ she said. ‘I don’t know their names.’

  Gilchrist felt himself slump. Their names. ‘Rita?’

  ‘She had men back all the time, Andy. I’m sorry.’

  Men back all the time. Well, t
here he had it. He wanted to ask where Jack had been while Kelly took others at her leisure. But he knew Jack had played rugby, practised with the team during the week, spent most weekends on the field, at home or away. He took a deep breath. In terms of finding Kelly’s murderer, this was about the worst thing that could have happened. Instead of narrowing the suspects, Rita had opened up the field, thrown in an entire rugby team. Maybe two teams, for all he knew. They could have made a right good game of it. But more troubling were his thoughts on how Jack would have reacted if he had ever found out.

  ‘Are you still there, Andy?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he said, wondering if all the time meant not as often as he first thought. He decided that was what he would choose to believe. Kelly had not been a sex-craving slut, but a young woman living away from home, attractive, vivacious, looking for comfort where she had found none in her relationship with her boyfriend.

  ‘Rita,’ he said, ‘I have to ask you this. It might help. Can you remember any of their names?’

  ‘She didn’t exactly introduce them to me.’

  ‘So how do you know Geoffrey Pennycuick was not one of them?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said I’d never heard of him.’

  There he was again, missing the obvious, hearing only what he wanted to hear and jumping to conclusions. Which at least meant that Geoffrey Pennycuick was still not ruled out. Not just yet. He was undecided if that pleased or disappointed him: pleased that he might bring down the King of Condescension himself; disappointed that Pennycuick might have shared intimate moments with his brother’s girlfriend.

  He tried to settle his thoughts by thinking ahead.

  Maybe he would find something in Kelly’s mother’s attic that would throw light on what had happened. He wanted to believe that. Without that, the case was toppling against him. And with those thoughts, he could almost feel the wheels of justice crushing his memories of Jack.

  CHAPTER 21

  Morning arrived dark and wet.

  Before boarding the airport bus, Gilchrist dismantled his mobile phone, dropped the SIM card through the grating of a road drain and threw the phone case into a waste skip. Seated in the departure lounge, he half expected Tosh to come bounding along the corridor, brandishing a pair of handcuffs. But the flight was called sans Tosh, and he boarded without incident.

  Clearing customs at Newark was a different matter. The grilling he received over such a short visit had him wishing he had ticked the business box for the purpose of his trip. But he had worried that he might have needed a business visa to do so, and had not checked the requirements before leaving.

  Compared to Newark, Albany was a breeze. His luggage cleared the carousel in no time at all, and he was driving his rental car within thirty minutes of landing, paying for two days in cash.

  He drove north on the Thruway, surprised by how cold the landscape looked. Trees bared of leaves rolled over hills as grey as a jailer’s crew cut. Heavy clouds threatened snow. Summer could have been a forgotten season.

  He took exit 13N for Saratoga Springs, which brought him into the north end of town, close to Route 9 north to Wilton. He tried calling Kelly’s mother on his new mobile, but was connected to her voicemail and hung up. Checking into the Holiday Inn off Broadway, he booked the cheapest room they had.

  He unpacked, showered and confirmed that all his wounds were doing fine. Then he phoned Kelly’s mother again but was connected once more to her voicemail. He worried that she might have left town or arranged to meet someone, and cursed himself for not calling ahead. He checked his watch. Seven forty-three.

  Although night had fallen, he decided to try to locate her home.

  Route 9 north was a two-way highway that ran dead straight for a number of miles through the foothills of the Adirondacks. Commercial yards spilled off the road to his left and right, their lighted signs announcing landscaping supplies, RV trailers, swimming pools, kitchen cabinets made to order. As he travelled farther north, traffic thinned and the highway darkened to a long tunnel lit by his high-beams. The Wishing Well restaurant opened up on his left, its parking lot overflowing, its dull wooden structure brightened by windows that beckoned him inside for a drink and a meal.

  Then back to darkness and silent highway driving.

  He checked his MapQuest printout to confirm the house number. Driveway reflectors alerted him to nearing mailboxes glowing with luminescent numbers. House by house, he drove closer, slowing to a crawl as he neared. He caught a glimpse of Kelly’s home through a narrow stand of trees bordering a deep front yard. His high-beams brushed bushes on the opposite border as he made the turn, then fell along the driveway.

  The house sat well back from the road, at least a hundred yards. Windows glowed with light from within. He checked the time on the dashboard. Nearly nine. It had been only two days since he had first spoken to Kelly’s mother and it seemed surreal that, after all these years, here he was, pulling into the driveway to the home in which Kelly had been raised.

  He parked in front of a double garage that sat back from the house. Light flickered at the edge of the closest window. Kelly’s mother said she lived alone, and he worried that a strange car driving into her yard at that time of night might cause her concern. He flipped open his mobile and dialled her number. He got the busy signal, and wondered if she was on the phone after seeing his car.

  Three attempts later, she picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Roberts?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist of Fife Constabulary,’ he said, conscious of the strength of his Scottish accent. ‘We spoke a couple of days ago. About Kelly.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m parked in your driveway. I’m sorry it’s a bit late, but could we talk?’

  ‘Oh. It’s you. I was wondering who that was. I’m just getting ready for bed.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back to—’

  He jumped as a double-barrelled shotgun tapped the side window once, twice, then jerked in a get out of the car motion.

  ‘Take it nice and easy, mister,’ a voice said as the car door was opened for him.

  ‘I’m here about Kelly,’ Gilchrist said, and realized the error in his statement.

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘I mean, I—’

  ‘Both hands where I can see them.’

  Gilchrist gripped the steering wheel, mobile phone in one hand, and kept his eyes on the shotgun. The man behind it was six foot plus, twenty stone at least, with a gut that threatened to pop the buttons off his shirt.

  Gilchrist nodded to the shotgun. ‘I hope that’s not loaded.’

  ‘She’s loaded all right.’

  ‘I’m a detective,’ Gilchrist said, ‘with Fife Constabulary in Scotland.’

  ‘Helluva long way to come for a ride.’

  Gilchrist eased his hands from the steering wheel. ‘I’m investigating a missing person,’ he went on, trying to ignore the shotgun as he pulled himself from the car.

  Face to face, at six-one, he was still a good six inches short.

  The man’s gaze shifted over Gilchrist’s shoulder, and Gilchrist turned to see Kelly’s mother standing at the front door.

  ‘It’s all right, JD. It’s Mr Gilchrist. From Scotland.’

  ‘You got ID?’ JD asked. ‘And move those hands real slow.’

  Gilchrist ended his call, then eased his hand into his jacket. He removed his wallet, pulled out his driving licence and handed it over.

  JD raised the muzzle of his shotgun, breached the barrel, then slung it over his left arm. ‘Can never be too careful,’ he said, and held out his right hand. ‘Name’s Jonathan. Everyone calls me JD. Live next door and keep an eye out for Annie here.’

  Gilchrist shook a shovel-sized hand as rough as bark. ‘Everyone calls me Andy.’

  As they walked towards the front
door, Gilchrist said, ‘Did the Sheriff’s Office visit Mrs Roberts in the last day or so?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware.’

  Gilchrist felt his heart sink. No one had followed up as he had asked. He’d come all this way from Scotland unprepared to break the news. ‘In that case,’ he said to JD, ‘I’m not sure how much Mrs Roberts knows about our suspicions. I think she believes Kelly may still be alive.’

  ‘Until she sees Kelly’s body one way or the other,’ JD growled, ‘she ain’t gonna give up hope. That’s all she’s got.’

  All she’s got. He had flown thousands of miles to take even that away from her.

  JD stepped on to the porch and leaned down to give Mrs Roberts a hug. ‘How’re you keeping, Annie?’

  ‘Just fine, JD.’ She beamed at Gilchrist. ‘Are you related to Jack Gilchrist?’ she asked. ‘Kelly said he had a younger brother.’

  Gilchrist jerked a smile, surprised not only by her question, but struck by the shape and colour of her eyes – Kelly looking at him from an older face. ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m Andy. Andy Gilchrist,’ and showed his driving licence.

  She barely glanced at it.

  ‘I never realized until I put two and two together,’ she said. ‘I’m not as bright as I used to be, you know, but I’m not altogether dumb.’

  ‘Still sharper than a double-edged deer knife,’ JD retorted.

  ‘Please come in, Andy. You don’t mind if I call you Andy, do you?’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Roberts.’

  ‘Annie,’ she said. ‘Call me Annie. That’s what Kelly called me, and I’ve been known as Annie ever since.’

  JD remained at the door and tipped an imaginary Stetson. ‘’Night, Annie. If you need anything, just give me a holler.’ With that, he walked along the front of the house and melted into the darkness.

  Gilchrist followed Annie along a narrow hallway that opened on to a spacious living room with a stone fireplace that filled most of one wall. Shelves lined the walls, laden with ornaments, books, framed photographs, houseplants that dangled or climbed.

  ‘Why don’t you sit here?’ Annie asked, leading him to a long four-seater that fronted a slate-topped coffee table. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? You must be tired after such a long flight.’