Tooth for a Tooth (31 page)

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 hotel.

‘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.’

‘Is pathology what he ended up doing?’

‘I think so, but I really don’t know. And don’t know if I want to know.’

‘Was he ever unfaithful?’

‘Unfaithful? That’s a bit much. We only went out together.’

‘Well, then,’ said Gilchrist, ‘did he ever screw around when you were seeing him?’

‘Probably.’

Gilchrist soldiered on. ‘Did you?’

‘Screw around when I was seeing Brian?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not much.’

Well, there he had it. Rita shared a flat with Kelly. Why not share her lifestyle as well? ‘So it’s likely that Brian reciprocated,’ he offered.

‘Probably.’

‘Do you think he and Kelly were ever . . . an item?’ he tried.

‘If they were, I never knew.’

‘And you’re sure you don’t know Geoffrey Pennycuick?’

His change of tack almost threw Rita. ‘Positive,’ she said.

‘How about Jeanette?’

‘Who?’

‘Geoffrey’s wife. You would have known her as Jeanette Grant.’

‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. But nowadays, not much of anything rings bells.’ She gave a short laugh, and Gilchrist wondered if she had been drinking.

‘When you went to Wales that Christmas, do you know what Lorena had planned?’

‘No. I didn’t spend much time with her, even less after Megs took over Kelly’s room.’

Megs
. Rita mentioned Megs in her letter to Kelly. ‘I thought you didn’t like Megs,’ he said.

‘Who told you that?’

‘I, eh . . .’ His thoughts jumped to Rita’s letter. ‘I must have heard it somewhere.’

‘It was Lorena who didn’t like Megs,’ Rita said, as if not hearing him. ‘Megs was too big and pushy for her. Whenever Megs was around, Lorena wasn’t.’

‘Made herself scarce?’

‘You could say.’

‘Stay over at her boyfriend’s?’

‘No. Once Megs came on to the scene, they split up.’

‘Lorena and her boyfriend?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you still can’t remember her boyfriend’s name?’

‘No. But I think Megs went out with him for a while.’

‘For a while?’

‘For what it’s worth, my memory of Megs is that she was always either splitting up or making up. I think they split up after about two weeks or something, then it would be back on, then off again. Bit of a bitch, if you ask me. Stealing someone’s boyfriend. But she was always on the lookout.’

‘So, going back to Lorena, you thought their relationship odd?’

‘It seemed that way. He’d come by to see Lorena and the two of them would watch TV without saying a word, and sometimes not even on the same chair. Like strangers. But it takes all kinds, I suppose.’

Gilchrist thanked her for her help, then hung up.

Back in his hotel room, he pulled Donnie’s records from his computer case, flicked through the pages and found it.

Margaret Caulder.
Megs
to all her friends. Married Dougie Ewart in the early eighties. But not for long. Less than two years, as best as he could recall. And he thought that if he could find out where Megs now lived, and talk to her, she might be able to tell him the name of Lorena’s boyfriend. Her address in Donnie’s records was noted as Cupar, beside it her phone number.

A long shot, he knew, but he punched in the international code and the number.

‘Hello?’ A young woman’s voice.

‘I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number,’ Gilchrist said, ‘but I’m looking for Margaret Caulder.’

‘She’s not here.’

‘Is this her number?’

‘I don’t know anyone called Margaret Caulder. She’s not here.’

Gilchrist was about to hang up when he said, ‘Do you know anyone called Megs Caulder?’

‘Megs?’

‘Yes. It’s an odd name, I know—’

‘That’s my mum’s name.’

‘Can I speak to her?’ he asked.

‘She’s just gone down to the shops for some fags.’

‘I’ll call her back, then.’

The line went dead. So much for telephone etiquette.

He closed his mobile, powered up his laptop and plugged in the Internet connection. A few minutes later, he googled
Brian Fletcher
and got 1,859,574 hits. He narrowed his search by typing
Scotland
, then again by typing
forensics
, and after several further variations managed to narrow it to four hits. He opened the first article, which turned out to be an excerpt of some court hearing and did not help. The next one confirmed that Dr Brian Fletcher was employed at Queen Margaret’s Hospital in London. Did Queen Margaret’s have a pathology department? He continued his search, but after fifteen minutes decided he needed help.

He checked the time, then called Stan.

Stan answered with a curt, ‘Yep?’

‘Can you speak, Stan?’

‘Boss? Where are you? Tosh has got the ear of the ACC on this one. Wants to put out a call to you on the evening news.’

‘What for?’

‘To get you to turn yourself in, of course. What do you mean, what for?’

‘Tosh knows where I am, Stan. He’s not interested in me turning myself in. He’s only interested in furthering his career. He knows I’m in the States—’

‘The States?’ A pause, then, ‘You’re at Kelly Roberts’ place, aren’t you?’

‘Not quite, but close. Listen, Stan, I think I’ve found something, but I need your help.’

‘Hold on, boss. You can get me into trouble.’

‘Not at all, Stan. You’ve used your head, been talking to a number of people listed on old Donnie’s records and come up with a few names. Could get you noticed by the likes of McVicar,’ he added.

Stan paused, as if weighing the scales. ‘I hate that bastard Tosh, so let’s have it.’

‘I need you to track Brian Fletcher down for me.’

‘Who’s he?’

Gilchrist told him.

‘And you think he might have killed Kelly?’

Too early to say, he thought. But all things were possible. ‘He needs to be questioned about his relationship with Kelly,’ he said, then thought of his imminent call to Megs. ‘I might need you to do one more search for me. But let me get back to you on that, Stan.’

‘One other thing,’ Stan said. ‘That Gina Belli bird stuck her head in here yesterday, wanting to know about the fire in Edinburgh.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Told her to read the newspapers.’

‘Did she mention the cigarette lighter?’

‘Not to me, boss.’

If Gina Belli got his message at the St Andrews Bay, she would hold the lighter until he collected it in person. He had no idea of her travel plans, when she was scheduled to return to the States, or if she was planning to stay on in St Andrews. He thought of asking Stan to track her down and retrieve the lighter. But the thought of Tosh triumphing over the return of Jack’s lighter in his absence made him decide against that.

After hanging up, he returned to the photographs and shuffled his way through them with a fresh pair of eyes, setting aside those of Kelly’s friends. But it was a photograph of Lorena that grabbed his attention.

There she stood, with a small, straggly-haired individual by her side, whom Gilchrist realized was her mystery boyfriend. He pulled the image closer.

Was this the photograph of a murderer? Was he looking at Kelly’s killer? Who better to visit Mexico with Lorena and mail a postcard to the States, than her boyfriend? Gilchrist saw for the first time the muscular strength of the man. Shirtsleeves pulled above his elbows revealed forearms striped with muscles like cable. What Gilchrist had taken as a thin face he now saw were the sculpted features of a man carrying a deep-rooted hatred of those around him. Black eyes glared back at the camera, as if demanding what right the photographer had to take his picture. Even his grip around his beer mug looked as if it threatened to crush the glass. Gilchrist placed the photograph to the top of the pile.

All he needed was a name.

He picked up his mobile and flipped it open.

CHAPTER 24

‘This is Megs. Who’s calling?’

As soon as he heard her voice, a short backlog of memories swept into his mind. She had accompanied Dougie to a number of police nights out when they were husband and wife: Megs, following a pint with a double Scotch in short order, guffawing at Dougie struggling to keep up; Megs, big and loud and red-faced from the weather or the drink, a real-life farmer’s daughter if ever there was one.

‘Andy Gilchrist,’ he replied.

She gave a short intake of breath. ‘Of Fife Constabulary?’

‘The very same.’

A pause, then, ‘Why are you calling?’

He thought her voice sounded nervous. ‘Just want to ask a few questions.’

‘What about?’

Her answer seemed too quick, almost defensive. ‘Do you remember Kelly Roberts?’ he tried.

‘Who?’

‘When you went to university, you shared a flat with Rita Sanderson and Lorena Cordoba.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘So you remember?’

‘That’s going back a bit.’

Gilchrist thought silence his best response.

‘So, who was Kelly?’ she asked.

‘You took over her room when she left.’

‘Never heard of her.’

Not quite the answer he expected. He was almost certain Megs would have noticed Kelly around town. Few Americans attended St Andrews University back in the sixties, and with Kelly’s blonde looks and American accent, she would have stood out. Maybe Megs had known Kelly by sight, not by name. But that thought, too, seemed flawed. The local news had been full of the skeleton discovery, with Kelly’s computer image being shown on national TV. It seemed unbelievable that Megs would be so clueless.

‘Do you remember Lorena Cordoba?’ he tried.

‘That little dago bitch?’

Her change in mood almost threw him. ‘And her boyfriend?’

‘Why would I know her boyfriend? Come on . . .’