Tooth for a Tooth (35 page)

He ran back the way he had come.

He had just cleared the hedge, stepped back into the street, when he came face to face with Nance. She stood no more than ten feet away, barely breathing, arms by her side. He might be able to outrun Tosh, but he could never tire Nance.

‘Johnnie Walker,’ he said. ‘He went out with Lorena Cordoba, murdered Kelly and sent the postcard from Mexico. You need to find him.’

‘Too late.’ She shook her head. ‘Stan’s just found out he committed suicide sixteen years ago.’

Nance’s words fired through Gilchrist’s mind with the power of a lightning strike. Without Wee Johnnie, could he prove his case? With all the evidence, circumstantial or not, the procurator fiscal would have no trouble laying Kelly’s murder at Jack’s feet with a damning case. Any competent lawyer could. And as for his own dilemma? He could now see no other way out of it except through a custodial sentence.

He stood there, helpless, waiting for Nance to pull out her handcuffs.

‘I need more time,’ he tried.

‘To do what, Andy? Think about what you’re asking me to do.’

‘Jack’s innocent.’ He held her dark eyes, prayed she knew him well enough to know he had to be telling the truth, that his brother was no murderer.

She glanced along the communal path. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ she said. ‘Just go.’

Gilchrist turned and ran.

His knowledge of the backstreets of Cupar was nowhere near as good as he thought it was and he had to backtrack twice. Once, when he had to cross the main street, he saw Tosh about a hundred yards away, giving instructions to two motorcycle policemen, arm stabbing and waving in the air. Even from that distance, Gilchrist could sense the man’s anger.

He slipped down a narrow lane and continued jogging.

By the time he worked his way to his destination, a tidy bungalow in a quiet neighbourhood, police sirens called from the distance like waning birdsong.

He rang the doorbell and prayed she was in.

CHAPTER 27

The door opened to reveal a slimmer version of the Megs he had last seen twenty years earlier. Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘Well,’ she said, stepping back to invite him in, ‘it’s been a while.’

Gilchrist pushed past her into a narrow hallway.

‘Kitchen’s straight ahead.’

Gilchrist opened a pine door and entered a room brightened by a conservatory that overlooked a rock garden, the soil turned over for the winter. The sweet smell of pineapple had him searching for fruit going off, and he found a glass bowl on the work surface by the sink filled with chopped pineapple, grapefruit, oranges. A half-skinned mango lay on a chopping board, ready to be added.

‘Tea?’ Megs asked. ‘Or something stronger? You look buggered. What’ve you been up to?’ She pulled out a chair. ‘Here. You’d better sit before you fall down.’

Gilchrist slid his computer case to the floor. ‘Tea’s fine.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘Just flew in from the States.’

‘Well that explains it. Jet lag’s pure murder, so it is. I swear it’s a disease. Milk and sugar?’

‘Milk. No sugar.’

‘Would you like a biscuit?’ She removed a tin from a glass-fronted cupboard, tipped an assortment of biscuits on to a plate. ‘Tell you what,’ Megs went on, ‘you look like you could be doing with a bit of filling up. If you were a woman, I’d hate you. All skin and bone. Not like me. Look at this.’ She lifted her skirt, farther than he thought decent. ‘Farmer’s legs are what I have. Fat thighs.’ She slapped her right one. It barely wobbled. ‘Some men like them. Not me. I hate them.’ She lowered her skirt and eyed Gilchrist, as if waiting for comment.

‘You look as if you’ve lost some weight,’ he offered.

She laughed, and Gilchrist regretted having spoken. ‘You still haven’t lost that charm of yours, Andy. And the grey sideburns suit you.’ She plonked a mug on the table, pulled out a chair and sat next to him. Her closeness caused him to pick up his computer case and set it down on his lap. He opened it and removed a photograph.

‘I’d like to show you something,’ he said.

Megs pulled closer, leaned forward to examine the photograph.

Gilchrist was conscious of cleavage swelling by his side, her skirt slipping high on white thighs. ‘Do you recognize him?’

Megs nodded. ‘That’s Wee Johnnie,’ she said, ‘with his dago bimbo.’

‘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 asked.’

‘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?’