Tooth for a Tooth (33 page)

Gilchrist read the letter again, letting his eyes linger over every word. Any thoughts he may have held about Kelly going to Mexico were dispelled then and there. This was a homecoming letter from a daughter to her parents, her excitement about returning, her sadness about leaving, written down in black and white.

He scanned the page again, his eyes settling on his brother’s name.

. . .
most of all I am going to miss Jack
.

How could he have been so wrong? Jack and Kelly could not have split up before she disappeared. This letter told him they were two young people in love, both saddened by the prospect of her imminent return home.

He brought me flowers yesterday to tell me he loved me
. . .

Gilchrist thought he now understood Jack’s despair in the weeks before his accident. With Kelly’s sudden disappearance, he would have thought she had ditched him in a hurry, perhaps taken up with one of her other lovers. With no explanation, Kelly’s non-response to his own letter would have convinced Jack she wanted nothing more to do with him. Gilchrist knew that Jack would have been too proud to try to win her back. Instead, he had withdrawn into his own shell of bitterness, hurt and isolation.

He read the letter one more time, but found nothing that would indicate anything other than Kelly’s love for Jack. No indication she was planning to do anything other than return to the States, and that she was sad about leaving Scotland. She even planned to invite Jack to the States for the summer, to continue their romance. And the reference to the job suggested she had every intention of settling down for the long haul. If Jack’s emotional collapse had been caused by thoughts of Kelly no longer loving him, then he’d had it so wrong.

Gilchrist folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.

He now had a clearer understanding of Kelly’s emotional state in the weeks before her disappearance. But he was no further forward in his search for her killer. What he did know was that Jack had not killed Kelly. Of that he had no doubts. But without physical proof, how could Gilchrist convince Tosh and others?

He tried to recall the last time he saw Jack, what they had said. Had Jack spoken the last word, or had he? But each image he pulled up vanished at the moment of its appearance. One instant Jack would be grinning, the next his face would fold into sadness, then vanish. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself reach out to Jack. But the closer he came, the more Jack faded from sight. It was like trying to start a conversation with a ghost.

Or maybe it was the lack of sleep catching up with him.

His watch told him it was 9.37. His body told him otherwise.

Sleep came at him in waves, their heavy undercurrent pulling him down.

He struggled to stay awake, but Jack’s ghost whispered in his mind, telling him he loved Kelly. And in his mind’s eye he watched Jack lie down beside her, wrap his arms around her, heard her husky voice say, You’re so sweet. So sweet.

I love you
,
too
, Jack whispered.

Sleep took him in its warm breath.

Gilchrist wakened to the blackness before dawn, his heart pounding.

Silence filled the room.

His fumbling fingers found the bedside lamp, then the switch. He clicked it on.

Light stunned him. He lay still, letting his heartbeat slow. Something had jerked him awake. But what? The bedside clock told him it was 5.42, as his memory fought to recover slivers of his dream – fire, smoke, blistered skin, and in the background, Gina Belli’s voice whispering its psychic warning.

He pulled himself to his feet, flipped open his mobile phone.

His call was answered on the third ring.

‘SK Motors.’

Music thudded in the background. ‘Shuggie, it’s Andy Gilchrist.’

‘Ah, Mr Gilchrist. What can I do for you this morning?’

‘Any luck with the car?’ he asked.

‘Depends.’

Gilchrist fired wide awake. ‘On what?’

‘On what evidence you still got available.’

‘Such as?’

‘Clothes.’

Clothes? Gilchrist paced the room. ‘What’ve you found, Shuggie?’

‘Fibre.’

‘After all this time?’

‘Told you it was a shitey paint job.’

Gilchrist opened the curtains to a black morning. The sky was starless, covered by clouds he could not see. His own thoughts seemed just as blind. ‘Start from the beginning, Shuggie, and tell me what you’ve got.’

‘You wanted me to keep the costs down, so I concentrated on the front end, where any damage would have occurred. If I found nothing there, I was gonnie start stripping her back bit by bit.’

Silent, Gilchrist stared into the darkness.

‘Took lots of photographs so there’d be nae problems down the road. Got one of them digital cameras, with seven megapixels. Jake told me that’ll let you blow them up without loss of detail. But I took them close, just to be sure. Hang on . . .’

Gilchrist thought the background music dropped a notch, but he could not be sure.

‘Once I started stripping the brightwork, I seen the paint job had been done by an absolute beginner. Nae attention to detail. Just cheap and nasty and throw the stuff back together again. One coat of paint to hide the shite. What you’re supposed to do is—’

‘Shuggie. What did you find?’

‘Haud your horses. I’m getting there. What?’ His voice faded, directed to someone else, then returned. ‘Hang on . . .’

Gilchrist closed his eyes, took a deep breath, forced himself to stay calm. After all these years had Shuggie found something that could link the MGB to the hit-and-run?

Shuggie’s voice came back at him. ‘You’re supposed to buff it back to bare metal, especially around the bits that could rust, like around the headlight and indicator housings, where they’re screwed in. Then build the paint back up in layers. But in a cheap job like this, there was none of that.’

‘Shuggie?’

‘The paint job covered dirt and rust and something else that might interest you.’

Gilchrist opened his eyes, felt his throat constrict.

‘Now, I’m no a hundred per cent sure, but it looks like a piece of torn fibre. Just a tiny bit, mind you. So I got out my magnifying glass and my tweezers—’

‘Don’t tell me you pulled it off without someone being present.’

‘Mr Gilchrist,’ Shuggie grumbled. ‘You should know me better than that. I got Phil to take photos as I was peeling it back, paint and all, and placed it into a
clean
jam jar.’

Gilchrist caught the emphasis on the word
clean
. Years ago, when Shuggie had been involved in his first forensic examination, he had deposited lumps of windscreen glass into a cardboard box that had once contained God only knew what. The procurator fiscal declared the entire sample contaminated. It had been a hard lesson for all involved.

‘But better than that,’ Shuggie went on, ‘my magnifying glass also detected what looked like hair—’

‘What kind of hair?’

‘I’m no an expert—’

‘Long hair short hair blond hair what?’

‘Short hair. Dark.’

Gilchrist reached down, steadied himself on the window sill. ‘Jesus.’

‘That’s what I was telling you, Mr Gilchrist. The paint job was shite. Just spray the fucker and cover it up. I was able to peel a chunk of it off. I’ve got two hairs stuck to the back of the paint. It’s perfect, Mr Gilchrist.’

‘Yes,’ Gilchrist whispered, ‘it is.’

He hung his head. Beneath him, the parking lot glowed a faint orange from the overhead lights. A car shifted in the morning chill, headlights brushing the asphalt.

It’s perfect
, his mind repeated.

Or was it?

Not long after he joined the Force, he had asked to see the records of his brother’s hit-and-run and, to his disgust, had learned that much of it had been lost during repainting of the premises. They still had his blood-soaked socks and shoes, but no trousers or shirt. Without any samples of his brother’s trousers, which would have taken the brunt of the hit, the fibre might not be conclusive. The procurator fiscal would argue that it came from a trouser leg, unequivocal proof that the car had been involved in an accident in which someone had been hit. But the defence would argue that it was nothing more than a piece of rag torn off while its careful owner had been meticulously cleaning his car. Why, just look at these photographs. The car is immaculate.

But it could be perfect. Shuggie had found two hairs. If those hairs matched Jack’s DNA, which Tosh had already forensically analysed, then no defence solicitor in the land would be able to explain it away.

‘Are you still there, Mr Gilchrist?’

Gilchrist turned. ‘Listen, Shuggie,’ he said, ‘I need you to hold those hair samples for me. I need you to keep them in a safe place until I have someone pick them up.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Will you do that for me?’

Shuggie agreed, and Gilchrist hung up.

He dialled Stan’s number and approached the window again. Narrow slivers of white, orange, yellow streaked the skyline. He had a domestic flight to catch that afternoon, then an international connection in Newark. He would be in Glasgow the following morning, by which time Stan would already have started the chain of custody that could bring his brother’s killer to justice.

Maybe Megs would have found a photograph of Wee Johnnie by then, too. Or maybe Stan had managed to find out where Wee Johnnie worked, even spoken to him, perhaps had already set up an interview. But if they could lift DNA from the back of the postcards’ stamps . . .

That could solve the case right there.

CHAPTER 26

At Glasgow International Airport the following morning, Gilchrist passed through customs with barely a pause. He collected his suitcase from the baggage carousel, strode into the arrivals lounge and was powering up his mobile when a hand slapped his shoulder.

‘That’s as far as you’re going, Gilchrist.’

He spun around.

Tosh had a wide grin on his face. Nance stood beside him, expressionless.

‘Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?’ Gilchrist tried, but from the way Nance went for her handcuffs, he knew what was coming.

‘Sorry to have to tell you, old son,’ Tosh went on, ‘but you’re being detained under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Scotland Act for attempting to pervert the course of justice in the investigation into the murder of a Ms Kelly Roberts. You are not obliged to say anything . . .’

As he listened to Tosh continue to read him his rights, he slid his computer case from his shoulder and placed it on the tiled floor. He turned his back to Nance while she cuffed him, quite gently, he thought, and forced his mind to work through the logic.

He was being detained, not charged. So a warrant for his arrest had not been issued. Which meant they had insufficient evidence against him. Or, more correctly, he imagined, they had not concocted a strong enough case. Not yet, that is. With Greaves in Gilchrist’s corner, he felt sure Randall would want Tosh to play by the rules. They would interview him in North Street, and surely charge him then.

Handcuffs on, he faced Nance. But she could not hold his gaze.

‘Car’s over in the car park, Gilchrist. Not yours. Ours. We’ll have someone drive that fancy little Merc of yours all the way back to the office for you. How fair is that?’

He shrugged off Tosh’s grip and nodded to his computer case. ‘I’ll take that,’ he said, and leaned forward as Nance slipped the strap over his head. ‘The suitcase is yours,’ he nodded to Tosh, and headed for the exit with Nance by his side.

The doors slid open and a cold Glasgow draught stopped him. A drizzle as fine as a St Andrews haar dampened his hair. ‘Collar,’ he said to Nance, and tried to engage her eyes as she tugged his jacket collar up around his neck and adjusted the computer-case strap. But her vacant look told him he was on his own, and she took hold of his arm and escorted him from the terminal building. Not quite like old times, he thought, but something in the way they fell into each other’s stride warmed him.

Tosh caught up with them as they entered the multi-storey car park, and the rest of the walk was carried out under his monosyllabic commands. Left. This way. Stop. Gilchrist tried, ‘Everything all right, Nance?’ But she only gave him a blank look that told him she was having none of it.

The car was parked on level four, and the ride in the lift was done in silence. Tosh beeped his remote and the boot clicked open. He threw in Gilchrist’s suitcase, while Nance folded the driver’s seat forward to let Gilchrist take his seat in the back.

He turned his back to her. ‘Do you mind taking these off?’ he said.

Silent, she obliged, then stood back as he leaned forward and squeezed into the car. Tosh jumped into the passenger seat, while Nance sat behind the wheel. Alone in the back, Gilchrist laid his computer case on his knees and placed both arms over it.

‘What’s in there? The Crown jewels?’ Tosh quipped, clicking in his seatbelt.

‘You’re a laugh a minute these days,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Practising for stand-up?’