Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  He picked one at random.

  A party in someone’s house. In the background, couples dance-hugged in a dimly lighted room. No Jack. No Rita. Just Kelly in the foreground, her arms around someone he did not recognize, their bodies pressed close. Another of Kelly with her arms draped over the shoulders of two male students either side, grinning faces tilted towards the all-American girl. The university archway fixed the locale.

  Where had Jack been when all this was going on?

  He further split the Kelly-and-friends pile into Kelly with women, Kelly with men, Kelly with both and those without Kelly. He had no idea where this would lead him, but he thought it might prove something. Perhaps the extent of her infidelity. Rita’s words echoed in his mind – men back all the time. Could Kelly not be true to her boyfriend? As he stacked the photographs in their respective piles, the answer became clear to him.

  No, she could not. Not one bit.

  He studied another photograph – Kelly seated on a sofa, being kissed with passion, returning it with passion of her own. Another of her seated at some bar, the Central perhaps, a friend’s hand dangling over her shoulder, his fingers daringly close to the tip of her left breast, the nipple proud through her summer blouse. If Gilchrist had not known better, he would have thought these were photographs of a free-spirited girl with no steady love interest, intent on enjoying life to the full.

  He finished the dark rum, stripped open a bottle of wine.

  Never mix the grape and the grain. Why the hell not? He almost finished the wine in one go, and spread the photographs across the floor. He picked up the closest one.

  Rita stood shoulder to shoulder with Kelly on the beach, scarves and gloves and flushed faces beating off the chill. Behind them, waves frothed. Anywhere else in the world it would have been a winter scene. In Scotland, it could have been the middle of summer. He searched for others of Rita, found one of her with Brian. He remembered Brian playing rugby with Jack, but nowhere near as gifted, or committed. Beside Brian stood Kelly, and next to Kelly stood Jack, slim and fit. But where other photographs showed Jack smiling, this one showed him dark and brooding. He had always thought Jack and Kelly made an attractive couple, always happy in each other’s company. But that photograph told him otherwise. He flipped it over, looking for a date, but the back was clear.

  Had this been the start of Jack’s dark period, his emotional change? How intense he looked, how unhappy. Had he found out about Kelly’s infidelity? Had he confronted her with his suspicions? As Gilchrist studied the photograph, he came to see in Jack’s eyes the desperation of a lover knowing he was being cast aside and not knowing how to stop it.

  He thought of Jack’s letter to Kelly, his cry for her to come back to him.

  I hope you can find some way to forgive me.

  Having now seen these photographs, did Jack not have that the wrong way around?

  I just wish I could have those last two days back.

  Would two days have made any difference? By the looks of things, he would have needed two years.

  Gilchrist finished off the wine, pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. The desire to sleep swept over him in waves. He glanced at his watch: 1.42. Back in Scotland, he would be on his way to the office by now. He gathered the photographs from the floor. Those he had already looked at, he stacked in their respective piles and placed on top of the television stand. The others he swept together and threw into the box.

  In doing so, one caught his eye.

  Kelly and Rita in a bar. Where else? But standing in a group of three men behind them lounged a young Geoffrey Pennycuick, his face at an angle, his eyes captured in a lustful look at an American blonde. Gilchrist studied his face. No doubt about it – Kelly was his focal point, or rather, her backside was.

  The other men in the group were out of focus, their faces turned to the bar. Only Pennycuick seemed aware of the sexual possibility before him. Others in the periphery tugged at Gilchrist’s attention. Was that the profile of a young Jeanette Pennycuick? He pulled the image closer, thought of having it digitally enhanced. But what would that prove? That Pennycuick went out with his wife before they married?

  He scooped up another photograph, a close-up of Kelly by herself, smiling her white American smile, wrapped up against the winter chill, her scarf covering her chin. She did not look like someone who would be dead before spring. He was about to return the photograph to the box when he paused. Something about Kelly’s scarf caught his eye – black, with an unusual red edging, of material as fine as silk but without the sheen. Merino wool, he thought, or maybe cashmere. He had seen that scarf before.

  He flicked through the photographs as fast as a card trickster and found what he was looking for. Rita and Kelly on a windblown West Sands, black scarf around Rita’s neck, matching gloves on her hands. And there was the red edging. He compared the photographs. The same scarf. He thought he knew enough about women to know that buying identical outfits was tantamount to sacrilege. But students, especially close friends, would not have been averse to sharing.

  Can I please have my scarf and gloves back, and my books, especially my Jane Austen? I wouldn’t have expected that of you.

  Bills, food, drink, make-up, scarves, gloves. Boyfriends, too?

  That thought struck him. Would Rita and Kelly have shared the same boyfriend? Could Brian have been persuaded to participate in a threesome? Maybe the answer to Kelly’s murder lay not in her own list of one-night stands, but in Rita’s infrequent lovers. Had Brian been pulled in by Kelly’s blonde charm? Had they consummated a forbidden relationship in Rita’s absence? The opportunity was there. Hormones, too. But a session on the side with your girlfriend’s flatmate was no reason to commit murder.

  He pushed the photographs aside. He could not go on. Sleep pulled him bedside.

  He staggered to his feet, dumped himself on to it.

  By the time he wriggled up to the headboard, he had drifted off.

  CHAPTER 23

  Morning brought a quiet stirring of different sounds – a door closing, a heat pump switching on, a melange of noise that rustled in the background.

  Shaving and showering did little to bring Gilchrist awake. His back felt stiff and his neck hurt, and by the time he pulled on his leather jacket it was almost nine thirty. One part of his brain told him it was morning, while another computed five hours ahead and reminded him it was 2.30 p.m. in Scotland. Another day had almost passed, and he wondered if Tosh had made any progress with his vendetta against him, or if he’d had the audacity to phone his kids.

  He called Mo’s number first, but it rang out. Jack’s did, too, not even kicking into voicemail. He peeled back the curtains with a grunt, and faced a grey sky. Pockets of snow spotted the sidewalks and property lines. Beneath him, his rental car sat in a distant corner of the parking lot where he had abandoned it.

  Downstairs, reception gave him a phone number for Saratoga County Sheriff’s Office and an address in Ballston Spa, some eight miles south on Route 50. He called the number and set up an appointment with a Detective Latham of the Records Department for ten thirty, which gave him plenty of time.

  But once off Route 50, and on Fairground Avenue, Gilchrist drove past the turn-off for County Farm Road and had to double back. By the time he found the Sheriff’s Office, a relatively modern building that sat alone in what seemed like acres of open ground, he had six minutes to spare.

  He asked for Detective Latham and was instructed to take a seat.

  At ten thirty on the button, Detective Latham walked through the double swing doors, blonde hair pinned back and a uniform two sizes too small for her chest.

  They shook hands and introduced themselves.

  ‘You’re interested in the Kelly Roberts case, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Latham strode off, and it took Gilchrist a full second to realize he was supposed to follow. They pushed through swing doors, then up a flight of metal stairs that echoed with thei
r footsteps, into a room filled with racks of shelves loaded with boxes.

  ‘Cold cases are in here,’ Latham said.

  Gilchrist watched her work her way between two rows of shelves, eyeing the printed boxes and mumbling from the alphabet.

  ‘Here we are.’ She stooped to remove a cardboard box from a lower shelf, and he could tell by the ease with which she did so that it did not contain much. She carried it to a metal table and slit it open. ‘Sixty-nine,’ she said, peeling the top back. ‘It’s been a while. There’s not a lot in here. What’s the deal?’

  ‘She was murdered in Scotland.’

  ‘Right. This is the one that’s causing some dust to fly.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We got a call yesterday from someone with an accent just like yours. Wanted us to send him two postcards. He was told we would need to see something on his letterhead. We gave him our fax number and haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘Did he give his name?’

  ‘Nope. He hung up. We called the number back and got a restaurant.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Pad something. A Thai restaurant. These must be what he was asking for,’ she said, and handed him the postcards. ‘I’ll leave you to it. But let me know when you’re done.’

  Gilchrist thanked her, then dug through the box. More letters, a hairbrush, nail file, toothbrush, all to retain samples of Kelly for DNA. In the late sixties, a way to analyse DNA had not yet been refined, but most police forces around the world knew it was coming.

  He turned his attention to the postcards.

  After all this time, and having passed through countless hands on their way to this box, the likelihood of lifting fingerprints from either of them would be non-existent. But the underside of the stamps might provide a DNA sample.

  One postcard was of a busy Mexican metropolis. The printing on the back told him it was Mexico City. The other he recognized as St Andrews Cathedral, twin entrance spires in the foreground, St Rules Tower in the background.

  He turned the St Andrews postcard over.

  The date stamp was still legible, but only just.

  12 Feb 1969

  He read the date again. It could not be correct. The killer should have sent this after Kelly was dead and buried, not before. This date was too soon. But if the date was correct, it could mean only one thing.

  Kelly’s murder had not been spur-of-the-moment, but planned.

  His mind pulled up Rita’s words, when she last saw Kelly.

  Not long after my birthday. Around the 18th or 19th of February.

  Rita had driven to Wales after breakfast with Kelly that day. The killer must have known that, must have been waiting for his chance to move in. He would have known of Kelly’s imminent return to the States and grabbed that narrow window of opportunity, which had Gilchrist thinking of Rita’s boyfriend, Brian.

  Where was he now?

  Just as Kelly’s mother had said, the postcard was typed. He scanned the letters for inconsistencies, a missing dot, a slanted letter, a crooked serif, but found none. The address was correct, to Kelly’s parents – Mr and Mrs Roberts – which the killer must have known through his friendship with Kelly. Again, Brian popped to the fore.

  Just how well had Brian known his girlfriend’s flatmate? And if Brian was the killer, what had he done with all Kelly’s stuff? Burned it? Buried it? Discarded it in rubbish bins around town? Gilchrist pulled the card closer. No full-stop after either title, not the way an American would have typed it. Mr. and Mrs. Which confirmed his thinking that the killer was Scottish, or at least not American. Mexican? Was that a possibility?

  He read on.

  Typing this because I hurt my hand. Tripped up on the beach. Going to Mexico for a short break. Won’t be back in the States until March. Will be in touch. See you soon. Love you both. Kelly. xx

  Gilchrist read it again.

  Typing this because I hurt my hand.

  Good enough reason for using a typewriter, yet vague enough to explain why medical records would show no visit to the doctor or hospital.

  Won’t be back in the States until March.

  The killer must have known Kelly was planning to return home after her final exams, and would have needed to make sure her parents received the postcard in advance. If not, Kelly’s parents would have been on the phone to the Scottish authorities for news of their missing daughter.

  This further proved to Gilchrist that he was dealing with someone who had not acted on impulse, who had not killed Kelly in a spontaneous fit of rage and disposed of her body in a rush. In other words, Kelly’s murder was premeditated.

  No one would have missed her. She was leaving Scotland, returning home. And who better to know the perfect moment to commit the deed? None other than Rita’s boyfriend, Brian.

  Gilchrist pulled up what he could remember of Brian.

  Not tall, but physically strong from playing rugby. Much shorter than Rita, five-six or -seven or thereabouts. Bad skin and straggly hair. Gilchrist remembered thinking Rita and Brian looked an odd couple, Rita tall with smooth skin and shining hair, and Brian short and scruffy with hair like a tramp. Perhaps the thought of having sex with a blonde American girl with a reputation for putting it about could have been too much for Brian to resist.

  Gilchrist picked up the postcard from Mexico. Again, addressed to Kelly’s parents. Again, typed. And date-stamped the American style, with the month first – 03/14/69. He compared the postcards. The letter ‘t’ on the Mexican postcard had a slight tilt to it, and the serif on the letter ‘y’ had a break. He searched the St Andrews postcard and confirmed his thoughts. Two different typewriters. Had this been typed in Scotland, then mailed from Mexico? Or had the killer flown to Mexico and typed it there? At that thought, an image of Lorena Cordoba tried to form in his mind, beside it, the grey shadow of someone else. But his mind refused to pull them up, and they both faded from view.

  He focused once more on the postcard.

  Having a great time. Staying on in Mexico a bit longer. Expect to be back at the end of April. Will give you a call. Love, Kelly xx

  What had Kelly’s parents thought when they received this postcard? It gave no details of where she was staying, no town, no hotel, no names of friends, no phone number. How long had they waited before they realized their daughter was never coming home? The killer had built a wall of time and created a belief that Kelly had left Scotland for Mexico.

  The plan was simple, ingenious.

  But was it foolproof?

  How had the postcard been mailed from Mexico? Had the killer given it to Lorena and asked her to post it when she visited her parents over New Year? Had the killer sent it in an envelope to a friend in Mexico with instructions to post it to the States? Or had the killer visited Mexico with Lorena and mailed it himself?

  Himself? Had Kelly’s mother not told him that the Sheriff’s Office had checked the flight manifesto and confirmed that Kelly had been on the plane to Mexico? Which meant someone had purchased a ticket to Mexico and travelled as Kelly Roberts. Did the next logical step not indicate that the killer was therefore a woman?

  Again, Lorena’s face popped into Gilchrist’s mind.

  And again, too many questions, too few answers.

  The rest of the files revealed nothing more, and Gilchrist slipped the postcards into his jacket pocket, closed the lid and returned the box to its shelf. Downstairs, he told the clerk that he had to leave to take a personal call, and could he thank Detective Latham for him.

  Back in his car on Route 50, he was thinking he was no further forward than he was two days ago when his mobile rang. He felt a cold chill as he recognized the international code followed by the number of his office in North Street. Spreading the white lie that he was on the south coast of England was one thing. Being tracked down in the States with a new phone and SIM card was another. He chose not to answer; instead, he slipped it into his pocket and did not retrieve his message until he returned to his h
otel.

  ‘You’re up to your neck in shite this time, Gilchrist. South coast, my arse. I’m preparing a warrant for your arrest, and if I don’t hear back from you by five o’clock tonight, and that’s Scottish time, so don’t even think about trying to fuck around with me, you’re mine. You know the number, so give me a call.’

  Gilchrist listened to the message again.

  South coast, my arse.

  So, Tosh must have spoken to Jack or Maureen. The fact that he would even consider doing that, dragging Gilchrist’s family into an internal investigation, had Gilchrist gritting his teeth and making a silent promise that when all of this was over, when all was done and dusted, he would find a way of having Tosh removed from the Force.

  For one illogical moment, he thought of returning the call. But what would that prove? That Tosh had indeed located him in the States?

  Right then, denial sounded good.

  He let his anger settle, then he dialled Rita’s number again.

  She laughed when she recognized his voice. ‘Haven’t heard from you in umpteen years, and now you’re making a nuisance of yourself.’

  Gilchrist felt as if his days were shortening, so he chose the direct approach. ‘How long did you go out with Brian?’

  ‘Brian Fletcher?’

  That was it. Fletcher. ‘The one and only.’

  ‘About ten months. Why?’

  ‘Ever hear from him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Know where he lives?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What he does for a living?’

  ‘He was studying medicine when I knew him. But he didn’t want to be a doctor. He was more into pathology, that sort of stuff.’