Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

by Muir, T. F.

  ‘You said you had another photograph. Were you able to find it?’ He bit into a biscuit, followed it with a sip of tea.

  Megs seemed to shift closer still. Her hand landed on his thigh.

  ‘I’m in the middle of a murder investigation,’ he said, taking her hand and placing it on the table. ‘I really need to see that photograph.’

  She pulled her head back and laughed, but it sounded forced. ‘You always were the quiet one,’ she said. ‘Do you know what women used to say about you?’

  ‘Megs? Please? The photograph?’

  She pushed herself to her feet, the sound of chair legs on tiles announcing her change in attitude. ‘You know what I remember most about you, Andy? You had all these women just gagging for it, and you never seemed to notice.’

  Gilchrist raised an eyebrow. ‘The photograph, Megs?’

  ‘Right,’ she said, with some finality in her voice. ‘Follow me.’

  In the lounge, Megs kneeled on the floor, opened a cupboard door and removed a pile of photo albums. ‘This could take a while,’ she said, and dug deeper. By the time she stood, Gilchrist counted twenty-four albums around her feet, some small and tight as a wallet, some large and padded as a cushion.

  ‘Can I help?’ he offered.

  ‘You could help by bringing me my tea.’

  Gilchrist obliged, carrying both mugs and the plate of biscuits. By the time he brought them through to the lounge, the coffee table was covered with albums.

  ‘Give me my cup,’ Megs ordered, ‘and put the biscuits over there.’

  Gilchrist did as he was told, and placed the plate on top of a cabinet next to a bookshelf that seemed stuffed with paperbacks two deep. ‘You read a lot,’ he said.

  ‘Like crazy. It keeps me sane. Got another bookshelf in the dining room and two in the bedroom, all filled with books. I never lend them out or throw any away. I’ve kept every book I’ve ever bought, been given, or stolen. And do you know what’s funny?’ she said. ‘I never go the library. I only read books I buy, or are given to me. Which of course makes Maggie’s Christmas and birthday shopping easier.’

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘My daughter. Well, Dougie’s and mine. Before I threw him out.’

  Gilchrist realized it must have been Maggie who answered his call from the States.

  ‘Where’s Maggie now?’ he asked, and from Megs’ smile regretted asking.

  ‘Staying over at a friend’s. So we have the place to ourselves.’

  He looked at the scattered piles of albums, realized it would take Megs hours to go through them all and said, ‘Maybe you should look at some other photographs first.’

  ‘Who’s in them?’

  ‘Kelly.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  Yes, that. Gilchrist retrieved his computer case from the kitchen and spilled Kelly’s photographs on to the carpet. He watched for any reaction as he passed them to her one at a time. But she showed remarkable disinterest. Only when she lifted one in which she was caught in the background did she pull it closer.

  ‘I don’t remember that being taken.’

  One of Geoffrey Pennycuick intrigued her, too.

  ‘He was such a randy sod. Screwed his way to a degree, so the story goes. I wasn’t his type. Must have been the only one.’

  But the photograph of Kelly and Rita stopped her.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The scarf,’ she said. ‘I used to have one just like it.’

  Gilchrist retrieved the photograph, then eased out his question. ‘Can you remember where you bought it?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was a gift. A birthday present.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Who knows? Probably Dougie.’

  Silent, Gilchrist stared at her. From Rita to Kelly to Johnnie to Dougie to Megs? Or had Dougie bought it brand new? ‘Where did Dougie buy it?’ he tried.

  ‘I didn’t say he did.’

  ‘No,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Wee Johnnie, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Thrift shop?’

  ‘Could’ve done.’

  Gilchrist stared at the scarf. As a student with not much money, thrift shops could be a cheap way to keep in fashion. Or had Johnnie passed it to Dougie after murdering Kelly? Why keep it at all? Why not simply dump it? As Gilchrist stared at the scarf around Kelly’s neck, he felt as if he was standing at the brink of some chasm over which he had to cross to find the answers. The same scarf? Could there be more than just a scarf? Or was he searching for the improbable?

  He pushed to his feet, walked to the bookshelf, fingered a couple of books. ‘Who’s your favourite author?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t really have one.’

  The books seemed to be sorted in alphabetical order, which in itself was some kind of feat. This bookshelf started at the letter H, and the thought persisted. ‘Do you mind if I look through some of your other books?’ he asked.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Where did you say the other bookshelves were?’

  ‘There’s one in the dining room.’

  Gilchrist found it, a tall oak shelf stacked from top to bottom. He scanned the books a row at a time, and came to see that although they were intended to be sorted alphabetically, several broke the system. He found Jackie Collins beside a long row of paperbacks by John Grisham, and two by Debbie Macomber next to Faye Kellerman. He removed several from the front row to check those in the back, then restacked them the way he found them.

  The dining room had another door that led to the kitchen. Gilchrist opened it, crossed the kitchen and entered the hallway. He listened for movement in the lounge, heard none, and tried the first door on his left.

  It looked like a spare bedroom, the bed made up and curtains open, with a dusty smell that told him no one had slept in it for months. He closed the door, tried the next one.

  Posters of boy bands littered walls painted deep pink and light purple. More posters clouded a dark-blue ceiling, and wardrobe doors sported full-size images of young men he had never seen before. Rows of dolls crowded a lower shelf like some memorial to a lost childhood. CDs lay scattered over every surface.

  He eased the bedroom door shut.

  Only one door left. He opened it and stepped inside.

  The room lay in twilight from half-drawn window blinds. A queen-sized bed faced a TV cabinet. Two shoulder-high darkwood bookshelves backed against the wall either side of the window. Gilchrist crossed the deep-pile carpet, regretting that he had not taken his shoes off.

  In the dim light he could just make out the book titles and author names on the spines. He found what he was looking for, surprised to come across two of the same book. He pulled one out by the spine, eased open the cover flap to a blank page, then returned it. He did the same with the other, taking care to hold it by the edges, and grunted with surprise when he saw the tribute. He was too deep in thought to hear the door open.

  ‘Find one you like?’

  Megs filled the doorway. From where he stood, and in the room’s half-light, he could not tell if her smile was one of annoyance, or something more troubling.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was looking through them.’

  ‘And here was me thinking you didn’t want to see my bedroom.’ She closed the door behind her, pressed her back to it, one hand by the neck of her blouse, the other running over her thigh. ‘Your move, Andy.’

  Gilchrist walked towards her. ‘Megs,’ he said, ‘I need to ask you—’

  ‘Yes?’

  He reached the end of the bed, held the book by its spine, almost balancing it on his hand. ‘I need to ask you where you got this.’

  She frowned, disappointment etched on her lips. ‘What are you talking about?’ She held out her hand. ‘Let me see.’

  Gilchrist turned it so she could read the title. ‘Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.’

  ‘I’ve had it for years.’

  ‘You have indeed,’ he said. ‘But that’s not what I a
sked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just answer the question, please, Megs. Where did you get this book?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Try another answer.’

  ‘What answer would you like me to give you?’

  ‘The truth.’

  Megs laughed, a sharp cackle that sounded eerie in the darkened room.

  Gilchrist pulled the book to him. ‘You have two copies of Pride and Prejudice, but only one of others by Jane Austen. Why is that?’

  Megs shrugged. ‘Sometimes I buy books I’ve forgotten I’ve read.’

  Maybe Gilchrist was mistaken. ‘One copy looks new,’ he said. ‘The other is second-hand. This one.’

  Megs glared at him. ‘What’s this about, Andy?’

  ‘You said all your books were bought, gifted, or stolen.’ He glanced at the cover. ‘Which was this?’

  ‘If it’s second-hand, it would have been given to me. If it isn’t new, I didn’t buy it.’

  He nodded. ‘So it was given to you,’ he said. ‘From who?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ She reached out. ‘Let me see.’

  Gilchrist pulled it back. He would be interested in seeing whose fingerprints they could lift. On the other hand, the absence of fingerprints might confirm who had not touched it. He opened the front cover and read out the penned tribute.

  ‘Happy Birthday. Lots of love, Brian.’

  She looked at him. ‘Who’s Brian?’

  ‘I thought you might tell me.’

  ‘How would I know? It was given to me second-hand.’

  ‘But who by?’

  ‘What d’you think I’ve got? A photographic memory? I can barely remember what day of the week it is, and you’re asking who gave me a book I haven’t read in years?’

  ‘How many years?’ He did not want to prompt her by putting words in her mouth. He needed to hear the name from her own lips without hint or coercion. ‘I’m asking you to think,’ he tried. ‘What was going on in your life when you read this?’

  Megs frowned, as if giving his question some thought. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Try when you were at university.’ Not a direct hint, but as close as he wanted to go.

  Something seemed to spark behind her eyes. ‘It’s Wee Johnnie, isn’t it? That’s why you want me to show you a photograph.’

  Gilchrist would have preferred direct recall rather than deductive reasoning, and felt saddened that it had come down to this. ‘Think,’ was all he said.

  ‘It might have been Johnnie,’ she said. ‘He sometimes gave me stuff. Mostly drink, so he could get me drunk and screw me. That’s all he really ever wanted to do, drink and screw. And he was no good at either.’

  Not quite the recollection Gilchrist had hoped for, but it opened up other possibilities in his thinking. Was it possible Megs had taken the book herself? Could she be involved in Kelly’s murder more directly? Kelly had been fit and strong, but she would have been no match for Megs in terms of muscled bulk.

  ‘Maybe you picked it up at a party some night and didn’t return it.’

  ‘What d’you mean? That I stole it at a party? Whose party?’

  Megs was either telling the truth, or was a decent liar. ‘Rita’s?’ he offered.

  Something seemed to settle into Megs’ mind at the mention of Rita’s name. She stared at the tribute, at the cover, back to the tribute, then glared at him. ‘That cheapskate bastard.’

  ‘Who?’ Gilchrist asked.

  For an instant, she seemed lost. ‘Wee Johnnie,’ she blurted.

  But in that moment’s delay, Gilchrist thought he caught her lie.

  CHAPTER 28

  Megs found the photograph she was looking for.

  Wee Johnnie Walker, not quite so wee in this image, with an arm as tight as steel around Megs, one hand firm on her biceps, the other holding a bottle of San Miguel. Ripped muscles striped his stomach, pecs cut square like a boxer’s. Megs looked bloated and white beside him. They could have been any Scottish student couple, happy in each other’s drunken company, except that the location did not fit. Palm trees lined the street. Off to the side, the lazy waters of some sea lay as smooth as glass.

  ‘Loret de Mar,’ she said. ‘Costa del Beer. Thought I was going out for a week’s romancing in the sun. All Johnnie wanted to do was drink.’ She glared at the photograph. ‘That was us after breakfast. When I look at this now, I don’t know what he saw in me. Laurel and Hardy were a better-looking couple.’ She let out a laugh like a cough. ‘I think he was just racking up his score.’

  Why take you to the Mediterranean? Gilchrist wanted to ask. Wee Johnnie looked as if he was nursing a hangover. Beer for breakfast. Hair of the dog? His body was tight, trim. Sinewed muscles seemed to invade his face, making him look hard and unforgiving. Wisps of a chin-only beard added to the Mexican bandito look. Was that what had attracted Lorena? Megs, on the other hand, looked more like baby-fat grown old. Laurel and Hardy might be considered a compliment.

  ‘Just you and Johnnie?’ he asked.

  ‘Dougie and Brian came, too.’

  Brian? Of Brian and Rita? He thought it odd that Megs had not remembered Brian moments earlier. But she seemed not to have noticed. ‘Was Rita there?’ he asked.

  ‘No, just Dougie and Brian. The three of them went everywhere together. Worse than musketeers.’

  ‘So you were the only woman?’

  ‘Not for long. A pair of pick-up artists, they were, Johnnie and Brian.’

  ‘But not Dougie?’

  She gave a hard cough again. ‘Johnnie and Brian were as cocky as they come, but Dougie just hung around.’

  ‘So Johnnie and Brian picked up some Spanish women and—’

  ‘English,’ Megs grumbled. ‘From London or somewhere.’

  ‘So Johnnie just . . . ?’

  ‘Pissed off and left me.’

  ‘Left you with Dougie?’

  She smiled, and something touching warmed her eyes. ‘That’s when Dougie and I first started going out. Romantic, don’t you think?’

  Well, that might explain Johnnie’s invitation to Megs to go to Spain. Three friends studying the same course at university, one of them hopeless with women, too awkward or shy to ask her out directly, and all by himself. But on holiday, with plenty of drink, it would be easier to establish a relationship, even take over when one ended. Particularly if that had been the plan all along. It might be considered a convoluted way to start a romance, but he had heard of stranger beginnings.

  ‘You and Dougie didn’t marry for years.’

  ‘Off again, on again. I liked to go on foreign holidays, see a bit of the world. Dougie didn’t. I could have lived in South America. Definitely my favourite. But Dougie was so undecided about everything. In the end, I had to take the bull by the horns, or in Dougie’s case the boy by the balls, and make up his mind for him.’

  ‘And the divorce?’

  ‘I made up his mind on that, too.’ She shook her head. ‘How he got to where he is defies logic. But I wish him no harm.’

  Gilchrist held up the photograph. ‘Do you mind if I keep this?’

  ‘You can have it, for all I care. Don’t know why I can’t throw stuff out. Worse than a magpie, so I am.’

  ‘Do you have a plastic bag?’ he asked.

  She gave him a Ziploc bag from the kitchen, into which he slipped the book. Her Mediterranean photograph of Johnnie he placed with Kelly’s.

  ‘Did the three musketeers ever go on holiday anywhere else?’ he asked her.

  ‘Once or twice, I suppose. But they all ended up going their separate ways. Why?’

  ‘Did they ever go to Mexico?’

  Megs frowned. ‘I think so, but don’t quote me.’ Then her eyes lit up as some long-forgotten memory returned. ‘They did,’ she said. ‘I remember it now. They had just come back. It was not long after I moved into the flat with Rita and that Mexican brat. We all went over to the boys’ place one night.’

  ‘All
of you?’

  ‘Me, Rita and Miss Mexico.’

  Gilchrist gave that some thought. Brian and Rita. Johnnie and Lorena? Which left Dougie and Megs. ‘Was this before or after the trip to Loret?’

  ‘Before,’ she said, a bit too quickly. ‘I had just moved in.’

  Lorena would still have been seeing Johnnie. ‘What was so memorable?’ he asked.

  ‘We got drunk on tequila. That’s what happened. The real McCoy. Duty-free in Mexico City Airport, I think. I remember it because Johnnie ate the slug. I never knew tequila had slugs. Why do they do that, anyway? I thought it was some sort of joke.’

  That would be Wee Johnnie’s style, Gilchrist thought. Macho man. But was he a killer? ‘And what about Dougie? He was free. You were free. Did you, eh, get together?’

  ‘Nope. Just got drunk.’

  The thought of Megs being in the presence of a man and turning down the opportunity for sex seemed out of character. Perhaps Dougie had been too shy for someone as bold as Megs. ‘So, when did you and Johnnie start going out?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it going out.’

  ‘What would you call it, then?’

  ‘Sex on tap.’

  ‘And Lorena? Did she just sit back and let Johnnie walk away?’

  ‘She was looking to leave him. She fancied Dougie.’

  ‘Your Dougie?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘And did she go out with Dougie?’

  ‘Dougie fell head over heels for the tramp.’

  Now Gilchrist thought he understood. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, or a woman whose man was having sex with the local Mexican. After all these years, Megs still held a grudge. The atmosphere in the flat must have been like touchpaper looking for a light.

  ‘So the Mediterranean beer outing was the end of Lorena’s relationship with Dougie and the start of yours?’

  Megs grimaced. ‘A beer outing it was, that’s for sure. But yes, Dougie and I, how should I say it, consummated our relationship during that short week.’

  Gilchrist thought he saw Lorena’s dilemma. First, her Johnnie was lost to Megs, then her Dougie. So how did that explain Megs’ hatred? Should it not have been the other way around? ‘You and Dougie didn’t last long, did you?’