Tooth for a Tooth (2 page)

Mackie’s explanation seemed brutally simplified, but Gilchrist had heard of less compelling motives. ‘Too early to have a stab at cause of death?’

‘Neil,’ snapped Mackie. ‘Skull.’

The SOCO by the plastic bags removed a dirty-brown skull from one of them, which he handed to Mackie as if passing over the Crown jewels.

Mackie took it without a word, and Gilchrist noted that the teeth looked perfect. The skull’s deformed shape confirmed the cause of death as blunt trauma. ‘See here,’ said Mackie, pointing to a jagged hole in front of where the right ear would have been, the skull indented, networked with cracks. ‘Best guess would be a single blow to the temple. And to crush the skull like that, she was most likely dead when she hit the deck. Definitely unconscious. From the damage here,’ he said, and ran his finger over the bone, ‘to here, I’d say not a hammer. The impact dent would have been more circular. And not an axe. The skull’s been crushed, not cut.’

‘Blunt axe?’ offered Gilchrist.

Mackie shook his head. ‘Something broader, more rounded. If she was killed at home, perhaps the base of a heavy table lamp. Now that would do it.’ Seemingly satisfied with his theory, Mackie offered the skull to Gilchrist.

Gilchrist folded his arms. He had never been comfortable handling human remains. Not long after joining the Force, he had once held the skull of a man shot through the head, and found himself struggling to control his emotions as he visualized the bullet thudding into the forehead, ripping through the brain and exiting in an eruption of blood and gore. Had the man felt any pain? Or just a numbing thud, followed by blinded confusion then death? At what point in the bullet’s passing had the man died? Gilchrist had managed to hand back the skull before vomiting over the mortuary floor. From that point on, he made sure to keep a safe distance.

‘It’s a classic wound for someone murdered on the spur of the moment,’ said Mackie. ‘Face to face. A heavy blow that crushed her skull and sent her flying, either dead or dying.’ He gave a slow-motion demonstration, holding an imaginary weapon and striking at the skull.

‘Left-handed, I see,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Unless she was struck from behind, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Mackie.

Gilchrist stared at the battered skull. Had sex been the motive behind this young woman’s murder? Had she put up a fight that ended in her death? Regardless of how she was killed, her disappearance would not have gone unreported. Someone would have missed her – her parents, boyfriend, sister, brother. She could not have vanished without some stirring in the local press. But Stan had found nothing up to 1975. Maybe Nance would have better luck with the Police National Computer.

Mackie handed the skull back to the SOCO.

‘Dr Mackie, sir?’ shouted the other SOCO, scraping around the exposed ribcage.

Gilchrist found himself on hands and knees, leaning into the grave.

‘It looks like a metal case, sir.’

‘Camera,’ ordered Mackie, and flapped a hand to his side.

The SOCO by the plastic bags obliged.

The camera flashed as Mackie pried more soil loose and eased a rusted lump of metal from the rotted remains of clothing. ‘Ah-hah,’ he said, holding it to his face. ‘Looks like we’ve found ourselves a cigarette lighter.’ Mackie rubbed the lighter’s rusted surface with his thumb, holding it as if about to light up. ‘Don’t suppose it works,’ he said.

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

Mackie reached for a metal box beside the moss-covered headstone and removed a magnifying glass. He turned his attention to the lighter. ‘Looks as if there’s some marks here,’ he mumbled, ‘scratched on the side. Difficult to say. Could be damage to the case, of course. Or just natural deterioration.’

‘May I?’ asked Gilchrist.

The case was about three inches long by two wide, scarred black with rust. Gilchrist supposed it had been silver-coated at one time. He studied it through the magnifier, tried to make sense of the markings, but the metal was too rusted after all that time. ‘They could be anything,’ he said, and handed the magnifying glass and lighter back to Mackie. ‘Can you clean it up?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to know if they mean anything. You never know.’

‘Let me see what I can come up with.’

Gilchrist thanked Mackie and stepped from the tent.

Outside, the crisp air and bright sunlight failed to lift his spirits. Somehow, the discovery of the cigarette lighter troubled him. Seven years earlier, a child’s body had been discovered on a stretch of dunes, a pair of matching footprints stamped into the sand close by. Gilchrist’s suspicion that they had been set there to lead them away from the murderer had been proven correct in the end. And now he had that same feeling with the cigarette lighter.

It seemed so innocent, it rattled alarm bells. They had found no watch or jewellery of any kind on the woman. Only the lighter. If the killer had removed her jewellery, if in fact she had ever worn any, why leave the lighter? Gilchrist grimaced at the thought. Had the lighter been overlooked? Or was he searching for clues where there were none?

As he unzipped his coveralls, he struggled through his rationale.

Was it possible the lighter had been deliberately left in the woman’s clothing? If so, did that mean the killer had known Hamish McLeod, had known that the family lair would be reopened in the future to bury Lorella, and the body found? It all seemed possible. But more troubling was the thought that for thirty-five years the murder had gone unnoticed, as if the young woman had simply been forgotten by all who had ever known her.

Had her parents been alive? Would they not have missed their own child?

Would she not have had friends, or siblings, someone who would have reported her missing? And now her remains had been found, would her killer worry about her murder investigation commencing? That thought troubled Gilchrist.

After all these years, what secrets from the past was he about to uncover?

CHAPTER 2

By the time Gilchrist left the cemetery the day was dying, clear skies turning a murky grey. A chilling dampness in the air hinted of rain to follow. The woman’s remains had been removed and bagged, as had the soil from the grave. Other than the rotting remnants of some clothing and the cigarette lighter, nothing of any real significance had been found. Somehow, just thinking about that lighter gave Gilchrist an urge to feel the hot hit of a cigarette. To change his thoughts, he called Nance, but ended up leaving a message.

He stopped by Lafferty’s. Six thirty, and night had already begun.

Fast Eddy winked as he caught his eye. ‘Usual, Andy?’

‘You talked me into it.’ Gilchrist rested his elbow on the counter and eyed the pint of Eighty-Shilling as its creamy head filled the glass and threatened to foam over the top.

‘First of the day?’

‘And gasping for it.’

Fast Eddy machine-gunned a laugh. ‘All that sunshine works up a right thirst,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it while you can. It’s supposed to be pissing by the weekend.’ He eased the pint from under the tap. ‘I’ll never understand why you don’t put on any weight. You stopped eating or something?’

‘Stopped smoking.’

‘I had a cousin who gave up smoking. Put on three stone in three months. That’s a ton of beef, let me tell you. Three stone? He’d love to know your secret. What are you now? Ten? Ten and a half?’

‘Almost twelve last time I looked.’

‘Get out of here.’ Fast Eddy mouthed a silent whistle and glanced at a blonde who had risen from the bench seat that backed on to the street window. ‘With you in a sec, love,’ he said, giving her a smile and a wink. He slid Gilchrist’s pint over. ‘Here you go, Andy. This one’s on me.’

Gilchrist raised his eyebrow. ‘What’s the occasion, Eddy? My birthday’s not until the end of the year.’

‘I think I’m about to get lucky, if you know what I mean.’

Gilchrist lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Thought you were settling down with Amy.’

‘A man would be a fool to fight nature, Andy. Shagging to a man is as natural as breathing. It’s his instincts, is what it is.’ He winked, then lowered his voice. ‘Now what would a man do with that, I ask myself.’

Gilchrist thought the blonde looked over-tanned. With her mobile phone to her ear, and navy-blue jacket and trousers, she looked every bit the businesswoman. She caught his eye at that moment, and he gave a quick smile, then returned his attention to his Eighty-Shilling. The beer tasted cold and creamy, and he had just opened the sports page of the
Daily Record
when he sensed someone beside him.

‘I was told I might find you here.’ Her jacket heaved with sunburned cleavage. She thrust out her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, her lips twisting in a crooked smile that warned Gilchrist to be careful. ‘I’m Gina.’

He caught her American accent, placed her somewhere in the New York area. Her grip felt businesslike, firm and brisk.

‘Andy,’ he said.

‘And I’m Eddy. Nice to meet you, Gina,’ he offered, giving one of his best Irish smiles.

She kept her eyes on Gilchrist. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew James Gilchrist,’ she continued, ‘of the St Andrews Division of Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department, to be precise.’

‘Quite a mouthful,’ said Gilchrist.

‘Quite a title.’

Gilchrist ran his fingers over his lips. ‘Well, Gina, you have me at a disadvantage.’

‘Which doesn’t happen often, I hear.’

‘You seem to know more about me than I do about you.’

‘We could change that.’ She turned to Fast Eddy. ‘I’ll have a double Tanqueray and tonic. Ten, if you’ve got it. And plenty of ice.’

‘No Ten, I’m afraid. Just regular.’

‘You need to get Ten in.’ Then back to Gilchrist. ‘Pint of Eighty-Shilling, is it?’

‘I’ve just got one.’

‘And another Eighty-Shilling for Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist.’

‘Must be my birthday,’ he said. ‘That makes two.’

‘Your birthday’s not for another two months.’

Gilchrist paused mid-sip.

‘Born December thirty-first, nineteen fifty-six, to Jack and May Gilchrist. Lived in St Andrews most of your life. Married Gail Jamieson from Glasgow at the age of twenty. Have two children, Jack and Maureen, both now living in Glasgow. Divorced your wife eight years ago for adultery.’

Gilchrist clapped his pint on the counter.

Fast Eddy stopped slicing his lemon.

‘My name is Gina Belli,’ she said, ‘and before you let me have it, I’m not prying.’

‘Define
prying.’

‘I’m an author. And a psychic. I write true crime stories for a living. You may have heard of me.’

‘
The
Gina Belli,’ chirped Fast Eddy, placing her gin and tonic in front of her.

She raised one eyebrow. ‘What was the title of my last book?’

‘Slipped my mind. But I’ll be buying a copy if you promise to sign it.’

She chuckled, raised her gin and tonic to Gilchrist. ‘To my next case study.’ Her dark eyes twinkled as she eyed him over the rim of her glass. ‘DCI Andy Gilchrist.’

‘I always told him he would be famous one day,’ Fast Eddy said. ‘Didn’t I tell you that, Andy? And let me tell you something, Gina, my darling. Never has there been a finer detective chief inspector to cross my threshold. Write that down in your book, darling. There you go, Andy.’

Another frothy pint of Eighty slid across the counter, but Gilchrist only stared at it.

‘You don’t look pleased,’ she said. ‘Which is not uncommon. You’re suffering mixed emotions. Anger at what you consider to be the violation of your private life, although as a prominent member of Fife Constabulary that seems pretentious. Flattered at my interest in writing you into my next book. And curious as to why.’

‘I can assure you I’m neither angry nor flattered, although I am a little curious. But I’m also not interested.’

She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m going ahead whether you’re interested or not, with or without your approval. Of course,’ she added, and slid closer so that her chest pressed against his upper arm, ‘I always find it more gratifying working with someone who approves of what I’m doing.’

She looked older, close up. Her powdered skin hid tiny acne scars that punctured her cheeks. He saw, too, how her eyebrows were black, thinned and powdered to lighten them. Her blonde hair seemed clear of dark roots, so he assumed she’d been at the salon in the last day or so. Gina Belli, it seemed, was not from old money, but gave the impression of having clawed her way to the peak of whatever pile she thought she now stood on top of.

Gilchrist shifted his stance, freed his arm from the pressure of her chest.

She breathed him in. ‘Is that Aramis?’

‘No.’

‘Must be Dunhill, then.’

Gilchrist thought he kept his surprise hidden.

She laughed, stepped back, finished her gin with a flourish. ‘Give me another,’ she ordered, then lowered her head and eyed Gilchrist over the top of imaginary glasses. ‘I could get to like you, Andy.’

He finished off his beer and surprised himself by lifting the second pint. ‘Well, Ms Belli,’ he said, ‘before I leave, I’d like to ask a question.’