Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Coffee, then?’

  ‘If you’re having one.’

  ‘I have a nice Colombian Roast. I won’t be long.’

  Gilchrist remained seated until he heard the clatter of kitchen utensils.

  On one of the shelves by the fireplace, Kelly smiled back at him. She looked younger than he remembered, her face more full, her hair longer, folded over her shoulders. Another one showed her squinting against the sunlight, her jeans showing off the curve of her hips, her blouse the swell of her chest. In a china cabinet by the entrance to the dining room, family photographs jostled for space between crystal glasses and ceramic ornaments. He opened the glass door and removed a photograph of Kelly with her arms around her parents. Her likeness to her father struck him.

  ‘That’s one of my favourites,’ Annie said, placing a silver tray on the coffee table. ‘And Tom is so handsome in it, too.’

  Gilchrist felt the warm flush of embarrassment at being caught holding a personal memento. ‘Kelly’s beautiful,’ he said, and returned the photograph to the cabinet. He took his seat back on the sofa.

  ‘Help yourself, Andy. Please. I don’t know how you take your coffee, so there’s milk here, and sugar there. And some cookies, too.’

  He tipped milk into his cup from a white porcelain jug.

  Her gaze drifted to the cabinet. ‘I miss Tom,’ she said. ‘I miss them both.’

  Gilchrist took a sip of coffee, dreading the way the conversation was going. Annie seemed pleased to see him, the bearer of good news. ‘At the door,’ he began, ‘you said you had put two and two together.’

  ‘Kelly was seeing someone during her stay in Scotland. I hadn’t realized who you were until I thought about your call.’ She smiled at him. ‘And how is Jack?’ she asked.

  Gilchrist pressed his lips together, found himself wringing his hands. He had not expected this, to be the bearer of nothing but bad news. He had not given it any thought, that she would have known about Jack, known nothing of his accident.

  ‘Jack died, I’m afraid.’

  Annie placed her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh. Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. When . . . ?’

  ‘It was many years ago,’ he said, and hoped she would leave it at that. He sipped his coffee, tried to gather his thoughts, find some way to change the subject. ‘You mentioned on the phone, a couple of days ago, that Kelly wrote to you,’ he began. ‘And that you gave some, not all, of her letters to the Sheriff’s Office.’

  ‘Yes. Some were far too personal for the Sheriff’s Office to keep.’

  Gilchrist returned his cup to its saucer. ‘Would you mind if I had a look through them?’

  ‘Of course not. I brought them down from the attic after you called the other day.’ She smiled, and he caught the glimmer of tears. ‘I had a wonderful time reading them again. It was lovely to have Kelly back in my life, even if it was only through her writing.’

  Gilchrist thought he saw an opening. ‘Mrs Roberts—’

  ‘Annie.’

  He clasped his hands. ‘Annie,’ he began, ‘has anyone from the Sheriff’s Office visited you recently?’

  ‘Yesterday morning.’

  Thank goodness. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They asked for a blood sample and a mouth swab for a sample of my DNA.’

  ‘Did they say why?’

  ‘No.’

  He realized he was wringing his hands again, and he separated them, placed them on his knees. He tried to hold her gaze, but found he could not look at Kelly’s eyes and talk about her murder.

  ‘Are you all right, Andy?’

  He shook his head, defeated. ‘No. I’m not.’

  She frowned, as if not understanding.

  ‘It’s about Kelly,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry.’

  He watched tears swell in her eyes, her lips press together and the tiniest of tremors take over her chin. He reached for her then, and she surprised him by taking hold of his hand.

  ‘Kelly never flew to Mexico,’ he said.

  ‘She didn’t?’

  He shook his head. ‘She never left St Andrews. We believe we’ve found her remains.’ He felt her grip tighten. ‘I’m sorry, Annie,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She stood then, and came around the table to sit down beside him. And it surprised him that she was the stronger, not what he expected at all.

  ‘I’ve prepared myself for many years for this moment,’ she said to him.

  Which helped him understand his own pain.

  Kelly’s death was still a shock to him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Seeing Jack in Kelly’s photographs did little to lift his misery.

  He recognized the West Sands and Jack and Kelly in running shorts; Jack’s minuscule and tight, his white thighs rippling with the powerful running muscles of an inside-centre. Beside him, Kelly’s tanned legs looked lean and lithe, her hair ruffled by a strong sea breeze, her hand raised as she pushed it back from her brow.

  He slid his hand into the box again, like a lucky dip, and removed another. This one showed Kelly, Rita and Lorena Cordoba seated in some bar, the table crammed with pint mugs, cigarette packets, filled ashtrays. There seemed to be more beer on the table than in the glasses. He pulled out another photograph and stared at it. Kelly faced the camera, her eyes smiling, her hand to her mouth, time locked in the moment of her blowing a kiss. He felt Annie’s interest in his stillness, and he buried the photograph in among the others.

  Back into the box. This one a black-and-white image of the castle ruins, taken with a low-lying sun, the direction of the shadow telling him that Kelly had shot it in the morning. She had introduced him to the art of photography, given him a camera for his twelfth birthday and explained how to adjust the lens aperture for depth of field, or frame a study for effect.

  ‘Here,’ Annie said, and handed him another.

  Gilchrist stilled. Jack stared back at him, another black-and-white on fast film, the natural light from the window by his side creating a hard contrast that sculpted his face. How young he appeared. It struck Gilchrist then that Jack and Kelly had been killed in their prime, their ambitions, aspirations, all snuffed out at the hands of some callous killers. They had never been given the chance to live, to marry, to have a family, and here he was, browsing through images they should have been looking back on with fondness.

  He cleared his throat. ‘This is quite a collection,’ he said.

  ‘All of her time in St Andrews,’ Annie said. ‘She had more albums of her days at Skidmore. Would you like me to get them?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ he said. ‘At the moment, I’m more interested in anything you can show me of her stay in St Andrews. Perhaps her letters?’

  ‘Let me get them for you.’

  Annie left the room, and Gilchrist dug his hands into the photographs, letting them fall from his fingers like playing cards. What had become of Kelly’s camera? Had that been stolen when her flat had been cleared out? Could that have contained a photograph of her last day, perhaps of her last moments, her killer captured on film?

  Annie returned with a shoebox tied with string. ‘Here it is.’ She untied the knot and removed the lid. ‘Tom opened every one in the hope of finding something that could tell us where Kelly had gone, even though he felt as if he was violating her privacy. In the end, after he closed her bank accounts, they just stopped coming.’

  Gilchrist glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was almost eleven o’clock. ‘I’ve kept you up way past your bedtime,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to sleep tonight. In a way I’m pleased you came. It’s difficult to explain. But it’s the not knowing that’s the worst. At least I now know where Kelly is.’

  Gilchrist realized that the subject had not come up. ‘I can arrange for Kelly’s remains to be transported to the States,’ he ventured.

  Annie shook her head. ‘Kelly had nothi
ng but nice things to say about Scotland, and especially St Andrews. Tom’s grandparents came from Scotland. I’m sure Tom would not object to returning Kelly to the home of her forefathers,’ she said. ‘And I would like to make one last trip to Scotland before I die. To say my farewells to Kelly there.’

  Gilchrist nodded, not trusting his voice.

  ‘Can I ask you to arrange that for me, Andy?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘When they took your DNA sample yesterday, did they ask you to identify a computer-generated image?’

  ‘An image? What of?’

  The fact that the police had failed to ask her to identify the computer image formally only injected doubt into his mind of their willingness to assist in solving this crime. Their apparent disinterest in her case troubled him. He had the computer image in his case in the car. But what good would it do showing it to Annie now? It could only upset her, an image of her missing daughter manufactured from death. Not like this box of photographs that provided images of her while alive.

  ‘Just a thought.’ He pushed himself to his feet, picked up the photographs and letters. ‘Do you mind if I borrow these?’

  She stared at him for a long moment.

  ‘I’ll return them tomorrow,’ he pressed on. ‘Give you a call before I drive over.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, as if realizing the futility of it all, ‘help yourself to any you would like. They’re just going to lie in the box until I die.’

  Back in Saratoga, he drove along Broadway and found a spot in a parking lot between Lillian’s and Professor Moriarty’s. He chose the Professor and ordered a Sam Adams, which came in an ice-chilled glass with beer frothing over the rim. He took a long sip, removed the lid from the shoebox and began to sort through Kelly’s letters.

  Most were statements from Provident Bank. He counted twenty-seven in total, and wondered if he would have done the same if Maureen had gone missing. Would he not have notified her bank for over two years? If hope was all you had, why destroy that? He made a note of the account number and sort code, then continued sifting.

  Two letters from the IRS, which Kelly’s father would have checked to make sure his daughter did not fall foul of tax demands. Next, four statements from Visa, which surprised him. He would have expected more. He checked the dates and confirmed that the oldest one was dated one year after Kelly had gone missing, and had a balance of $761.00. The remaining statements had a zero balance, and he realized her father must have settled her account and closed it about the same time he closed her bank account. Gilchrist would have liked to have seen her Visa account at the time of her disappearance, to check if any of her purchases threw light on her final days. He scribbled down her account number and laid the four statements on the bar.

  He pulled other letters from the box: one from Skidmore College about an upcoming reunion; four statements from Macy’s for the same closing months as her Visa account; one from a photographic studio in Albany thanking her for her response to their ad and asking her to contact them on her return from Scotland. Nearing the bottom of the box, he recognized the striped edging of the old-fashioned airmail letter, two in total, addressed to Kelly, but no letter from Kelly to her parents. Had Annie withheld that from him?

  He removed the airmail letters. The St Andrews franks would have had Kelly’s parents’ hearts racing. One of them did not have the return address filled out, while the return address on the other was to Rita Sanderson at the flat in College Street.

  He unfolded Rita’s letter. The first thing he noticed was the date, 22 April 1969, two months after Kelly disappeared.

  Hi Kelly,

  I must say that I am disappointed. I expected to have heard from you by now. Your departure left me in a bit of tizzy to say the least, and it would have been nice if you had left me some note of explanation. What did you do with the sheets? Why did you take them? And can I please have my scarf and gloves back, and my books, especially my Jane Austen? I wouldn’t have expected that of you. Anyway, now I’ve got that off my chest, and I have to say that my chest is getting bigger, much to Brian’s liking I hasten to add, I am pleased to tell you that my final exams are over, and I am quietly confident that I have passed them all. I will be returning to Wales at the end of next week, that is if my old banger of a car can survive the trip. Brian says he is going to visit me, but I’m not holding my breath. I like him a lot, but that’s about it. I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I really want to start something new, not lug the old about. I will be back in St Andrews for graduation in the summer, and if there is any way you might be able to make it, please drop me a line. Lorena sends her regards, as if she cared, the little tramp. Oops. I must watch that tongue of mine. And I was able to find someone to take over your share of the rent, some Scotch bimbo with bigger boobs than mine. Margaret’s her name, although she wants everyone to call her Megs. Ughh!!!! Nothing but a beer-guzzler. Anyway, I hope all is well, and I would love to hear from you again. Please please please write.

  Love,

  Rita

  Other than confirmation that Lorena shared the flat, nothing else jumped out at him. Confirmation that Megs also shared the flat, perhaps. He presumed the missing scarf, gloves and books had all been taken by Kelly’s killer while clearing out her room. He read through her letter again, strangely disappointed that she made no mention of Jack to Kelly. Yet again, why should she? He eyed the date again, and realized Rita’s letter had been written one week before Jack’s death. Had Rita written to Kelly later and told her about Jack? Or had she returned to Wales never knowing about his fatal accident?

  He lifted the other letter and opened it. It was dated 28 February 1969, not long after Kelly’s murder. He searched for the signature at the end and felt a shiver course through him when he saw it had been written by Jack.

  Dear Kelly:

  How are you? Well, I hope. I was sorry to miss you on your last night in town, and had hoped that we could have parted on a happier note. I’m sorry for accusing you of things I know you never did, and I’m sorry for shouting and leaving the flat the way I did. I hope you can find some way to forgive me. I am thinking of flying out to the States in the summer, and would like it if we could meet up. If you think you can stand a sorry Scotsman visiting you, please write and let me know. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll understand that you don’t want to see me again. I’m sorry, Kelly, for arguing the way I did. I just wish I could have those last two days back so that I could make everything right again, the way it used to be. I miss you. I miss our runs along the beach. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss the smile in your face. I miss you.

  Yours,

  Jack xxx

  There it lay, in simple black and white, his brother’s appeal to a lost girlfriend in words that left no doubt how he felt for her. Gilchrist read the letter again, wondering what had caused them to argue over those last two days. And what had Jack accused her of? – things I know you never did. Had Jack uncovered Kelly’s infidelity? Had he accused her of sleeping around? He had been sorry for shouting and leaving the flat the way he did. What had he done?

  But the more Gilchrist read Jack’s letter, the more he realized how explosive it could be in the hands of someone like Tosh. Here was clear evidence of a major falling-out between two lovers, an argument that had Jack storming off from the flat in a fit of rage. In the hands of a competent lawyer, Jack would be painted as a man of violence, a jealous lover, a fit-as-a-fiddle rugby player who had no idea of his own strength as he battered a defenceless woman to death. This letter did not prove Jack’s innocence. Far from it. It might even be argued that it showed how devious he was, having killed Kelly, then written to her in a ploy to prove he cared, the behaviour of someone so callous, cruel and cunning that they should be locked away for life. A competent solicitor might make that stick.

  Gilchrist folded Jack’s letter and slipped it into his pocket. For the time being, it was better to remove it than have others read it. He rubbed h
is hands over his eyes. Despite the rush from the discovery of Jack’s letter, he felt a wave of sleep wash over him. His watch told him it was almost midnight, which put it at five in the morning in Scotland.

  A long day, to say the least.

  He returned the letters to the box, left ten dollars under his half-finished Sam Adams and nodded to the barman on the way out.

  The night was cold, the sky clear and stars seemed to shimmer in a black void. He stood for a while, breathing in the crisp cold air, eyeing the length of Broadway, noting the side streets that fell off to the right, streets that Kelly would have walked, bars and restaurants she would have visited. A high-pitched laugh reached him, and he watched a young couple stroll along the opposite side of the road, arm in arm. Something in the way the girl clung to her partner, both arms holding his, as if for warmth, struck Gilchrist. That could have been Jack and Kelly. If she and Jack had lived, would they have walked this street arm in arm? Would they have married?

  And what of Gilchrist’s own marriage? He had never thought of himself as being impulsive, but his marriage to Gail had been achieved in record time: sixty-five days from first sight to register office, he had once worked out. Had Gail come along at the right moment and filled a void in his life? Or had he filled one in hers, up from Glasgow to the east coast on her summer holidays without a care in the world, except to snag herself a husband?

  The walk along Broadway seemed to revitalize him. Back in his hotel room he raided the minibar, removing an assortment of liquors. He cracked the top off a miniature Jack Daniel’s and tipped the photographs on to the bedroom floor, where he split them into two piles, one of landscapes and places, the other of Kelly and friends. Sipping the Jack straight from the bottle, he set to work.

  Twenty minutes later, and on his second bottle – Captain Morgan’s Dark Rum – familiar scenes of St Andrews lay before him. Images of the harbour, the East Sands, the cathedral ruins, St Rules, the West Sands and the university itself, all spread out around him. But it was the less familiar images that grabbed his attention – Kelly with her friends, in groups of three, four, as many as eight, mostly much the worse for drink and few he recognized.