Tooth for a Tooth (5 page)

Gilchrist waited while Sammy dabbed a thick thumb to the corners of his eyes. ‘Take your time,’ he offered. ‘You’re doing wonderfully well.’

Sammy grimaced. ‘There was two more. But I didnae know their names.’

‘Can you remember what they looked like?’

Sammy shook his head. ‘I didnae pay them any attention, mind. I just clicked that they was there, like.’

‘Male? Female?’

‘A man and a woman. Students, I think they was.’

‘Young, were they?’

‘Aye.’

‘Were they together?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Dougie Ewart, thought Gilchrist. And Mrs McLeod’s ‘
daughter
’. ‘Did you see the young woman console Mrs McLeod?’

Sammy frowned, causing skin to corrugate the length of his forehead, letting Gilchrist see the full age of the man. ‘Everybody was consoling her, son.’

‘But the woman who stood beside her,’ nudged Gilchrist. ‘The one who was hugging her and talking to her. Can you remember her, Sammy?’

Sammy turned his head and stared at the heap of domestic junk, as if each box was a book of memories from which he could retrieve an image.

Gilchrist placed a hand on Sammy’s shoulder, felt the hard lump of bones beneath the coat. ‘If you can’t remember, Sammy, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Sorry, son. It’s just too long ago.’ He coughed again, a barking sound that echoed from somewhere deep inside his chest.

‘I think you should see the doctor, Sammy.’

‘Cannae stand the buggers. A hot toady’s what I need.’

Gilchrist handed over his card. ‘If you remember anything else, give me a call.’

‘I’ll take the lot,’ said Stan. ‘Sixteen Pro V-1s in here. That’s eight quid.’

Gilchrist pulled out a twenty and handed it to Sammy. ‘Keep the change, Sammy.’

‘Son?’

‘Buy yourself a bottle and have some hot toadies. You’ve been a great help.’

They spent the remainder of the day checking local misper files and the Police National Computer reports for mispers around the time of McLeod’s funeral.

Local records turned up nothing. Two teenage boys had disappeared from Crail in October of that year. Gilchrist had vague memories of the incident, being only twelve at the time. Ten years later, one of the boys returned, having lived in London with his missing friend who was then working in a bar in St Tropez.

The PNC files offered more promising leads and Gilchrist downloaded photographs where available, or asked the local police to fax or email him what they had. By the end of the day, they had a few more mispers to look into.

‘That’s nine possibles,’ said Stan. ‘And I’d say at least five of these are long shots. But we still don’t know for sure that she went missing in ’69.’

‘It’s all we’ve got,’ Gilchrist conceded. He picked up one of the photographs. The date confirmed the girl had been missing for nineteen years. She looked to be in her teens, hair dark, untidy, with eyes that could have been borrowed from an older woman. What had he been doing when she had vanished? Back then he and Gail had been happy. At the moment of the girl’s disappearance, had he and Gail been laughing, crying, making love? Playing with their own children? He studied the image. Thin lips stretched tight over teeth almost hidden from the camera, but parted just enough to confirm that one of her front teeth was decayed black. He handed the photograph to Stan and pushed himself to his feet.

‘Where’re we off to, boss?’

‘We’re not. You stay put and get dental records for every one of these.’

Stan’s face almost slumped.

Gilchrist pulled his Mercedes into the car park of the police mortuary in West Bell Street, Dundee. Inside, he entered the post-mortem room and found Bert Mackie already hard at it, his attention held by a skeleton on the closer of the two PM tables. Gilchrist had never become accustomed to the smell of the mortuary, a fragrance thick enough to taste. He slipped an elasticated mask over his lower face as he approached the table.

Mackie glanced up. ‘Been expecting you, Andy. Come see our lady.’

In front of him lay a disconnected skeleton, bones washed clean and tinged red from soil that now lay like mud in a bucket on the tiled floor. Gilchrist tried to picture the skeleton covered with skin and, in doing so, imagined the woman to be slim.

‘What do we have?’ he asked Mackie.

‘The thirty-plus-year-old skeleton of a young woman. More than likely killed by a blow to the head. See here?’ Mackie ran a finger around the cracked indentation in the skull. ‘No new bone growth of any kind, which suggests she died immediately, or shortly after, assuming of course that she was alive at the time of the blow.’

Gilchrist leaned closer.

‘Slightly taller than average. Five-ten,’ went on Mackie. ‘Slight in build. No fractures, no broken bones of any kind. Except this.’

He ran his hand down the skeleton’s lower left leg and stopped at the ankle. ‘See here?’ He removed a bone from the foot. ‘This has been cracked and healed, somewhat poorly, I have to say. See this ridge? The fracture is an injury normally associated with a sprain. She could have twisted her foot stepping off the pavement. It’s impossible to determine exactly how long before death the fracture occurred, but I’d say no more than a year, maybe less.’

‘Anything else?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Teeth.’ Mackie returned to the top of the table and picked up the skull. ‘All thirty-one of them are perfect,’ he said. ‘Not a single filling. The top right wisdom tooth never came through.’

‘Could she be coloured?’

‘The shape of the skull suggests Caucasian.’ Mackie held the skull in profile, staring at it with almost morbid fascination, before returning it to the head of the skeleton. ‘I’d say she was a common-or-garden white woman.’

Gilchrist felt his body give an involuntary shiver. When she had been killed, she had been younger than his daughter, Maureen. And something in that thought sent a cold frisson the length of his spine.

He turned away.

On the other table, a white sheet bulged in the shape of a bloated belly. Was the body simply fat, or swollen by the gases of putrefaction? A set of scales stood nearby, their trays glistening wet with slime, and Gilchrist marvelled at Mackie’s apparent resilience to the daily revulsion of his profession – skin that glistened black and blistered like overcooked meat, or peeled from the bone at the touch of a finger, or burst open like ripened fruit.

He forced his attention back to the skull.

He stared at it, trying to imagine skin, nose, lips, eyes, hair, all the superficial tissue that forms the human face. He found his gaze pulled to the eye sockets, and wondered what her eyes had last seen. Had she watched her killer strike? Or had she been taken by surprise? Was her last living image that of a word in a book, or a view from her window?

And her perfect teeth. What had her mouth been like? Had her lips been full or thin? What words had passed between them? Had she called out the name of her killer? Had she screamed? Was that the last sound she made?

Someone must have known her. Someone must have missed her.

‘Anyone from the science lab expected over?’ he asked.

‘Later, they tell me.’

Gilchrist eyed the skeleton. The Police Forensic Science Lab Dundee – PFSLD – had specialists expert in skeletal examination. But
later
was not fast enough. Besides, he needed to ID the woman, and knew someone who might be able to help.

‘Is Heather Black still one of the best?’ he asked Mackie.

‘Glasgow University?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Last I heard.’

‘Overnight the skull to her, would you?’

While Mackie returned his attention to the ankle bone, Gilchrist stared at the skull. If anyone could put a face to this missing woman, Dr Heather Black could. Until then, he would have to go with what he had.

‘Did you find anything on the cigarette lighter?’ he asked.

Mackie shook his head. ‘One of those lighters you used to buy for ten a penny at Woolies.’

‘What about the markings?’

‘Inconclusive. Rusted to buggery. The scratches don’t spell out the name of the killer, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Mackie slid the ankle bone back into place, then brushed a finger over the healed fracture as if trying to determine how painful it must have been.

Something in that action had Gilchrist wondering if it was ever too late to change careers. Rather than experience hardening him, Gilchrist found he had developed a weak stomach for the sights and smells of the mortuary. The memory of one recent postmortem was still fresh in his mind. He had been at a fiftieth the night before and consumed too many beers, as usual. The following morning, pale and heavy-stomached, he faced the decomposing body of a woman recovered from the River Eden and missing for ten days. When Mackie slapped her brain on to the scales with a splashy flourish, it was too much for Gilchrist. He had turned, too late, and vomited as he staggered away.

Relief surged through him when his mobile rang, then sank when he recognized Mo’s number. He tried to keep his voice light. ‘Hi, Mo.’

‘Why didn’t you come back to the clubhouse? Everyone was expecting you.’

‘Everyone?’ he said, pushing through the door. ‘I didn’t know anyone.’

‘It’s not like you’d have had to have a political debate or anything.’

He resisted reciting his usual excuse of being too busy. ‘I know, Mo. I’m sorry.’

‘If you ever gave Harry a chance, Dad, you’d like him. I know you would.’

Gilchrist burst into early-afternoon sunlight, the sky bright through a narrow clearing of clouds. Harry’s name being spoken by his daughter still fired some primitive instinct through his system. Gail had left him for Harry, had taken their children with her. Why would Maureen think he would ever give Harry a chance? He tried to keep his voice level. ‘I’ll make a point of talking to him next time we meet.’

‘Don’t give me lip service, Dad. I don’t like it.’

‘I’m not, Mo, I’m—’

‘Mum and Harry were married for seven years, Dad. They were happy together. Did you ever think about that?’

All the time
, he thought. ‘I know Harry was good for Mum,’ he said. ‘He’s going to miss her. We all are.’ He opened his car door, sat behind the wheel, pleased that his words appeared to have quietened her. He tried to shift the subject by asking, ‘How are you and Jack holding up?’

A sniff, then, ‘OK. How about you?’

‘Hanging in there.’ He stabbed the key into the ignition, gave a twist and the engine fired into life. ‘Thinking back on the good times,’ he went on. ‘When you both were little.’

When Maureen next spoke, her voice was as tight as a child’s. ‘Mum tried to put a face on it, Dad. But she was so ill. It was awful. Just watching her. There was nothing we could do.’

Nothing we could do
. He remembered intending to call last week, then deciding against it. What could he have done? In the end they had all felt helpless.

‘When did you last see Mum?’ he asked.

‘The Sunday before . . .’ Her breath brushed the mouthpiece.

‘Was she asleep when she died?’ Why did he have to know the details?

‘Mum slipped away,’ she said. ‘It was peaceful at the end.’

He caught an image of Gail glaring at him through eyes sunk deep in a skeletal face.

‘Will you speak to Harry?’ she said.

Her question surprised him. ‘I don’t see the need.’

‘Not even to convey your condolences?’

‘We shook hands at the crematorium—’

‘Barely, Dad. That doesn’t count. You almost ran out of the place.’

The speed with which Maureen’s emotions shifted never failed to amaze him. It was like listening to Gail all over again. On the upside, it was a sign of Maureen’s recovery. He had to take that from it. Then it hit him with a clarity that stunned him that he was through trying to understand why Gail left. He had was through trying to work out why she hated him. He was just through. Gail was gone, now nothing more than a memory, her face and body and barely remembered smile only images on long-forgotten photographs. He wished he had called at Christmas, spoken to her at New Year, maybe even paid her one last visit in the summer.

‘You’re right, Mo. I should’ve been more considerate.’

‘Harry loved Mum. He really looked after her.’

Gilchrist struggled to keep quiet.

‘And
she
loved
him
,’ she pressed on. ‘Don’t forget that.’

He almost asked why she would tell him that, as if she blamed him for their divorce. After all, Gail was the one who’d had the affair. But he had travelled that road with Maureen before and knew he was on a losing ride. Instead, he said, ‘I know.’

His submission seemed to work. ‘I know you loved Mum, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you must be hurting, too. But Harry took care of her, you know.’

Hearing those words hurt. If he had been there for Gail, been there when she needed him, instead of working the case of the day, would their marriage have survived?