Tooth for a Tooth (28 page)

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.’

‘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?’