Tooth for a Tooth (8 page)

Had the girl’s parents been alive when she disappeared? Had they lived every year, every month, every moment since, torturing themselves over what might have happened to their daughter? And if they had been alive then, were they alive now?

‘Here we go, Andy.’

He took hold of a low-ball glass that glowed golden and chinked with lumps of ice.

‘And don’t try and tell me whisky’s a warm drink. That’s just another example of trying to fit everyone into the same mould. This is the way it should be taken. Just like the Russians drink their vodka. Ice cold. Even better straight from the freezer.’

‘I thought you drank Pernod.’

‘Just a phase we go through,’ said Jack, and glanced at Kara as if seeking approval. ‘We’re Scottish. So we should be drinking Scotch. Right?’

‘Becoming patriotic in your old age?’ Kara said.

‘And proud of it.’ Jack lifted his glass to Gilchrist. ‘To Mum,’ then to Kara, who held hers up in silent salutation.

‘And to the memory of the good times we used to share,’ Gilchrist said, and felt his throat burn as the whisky wormed into his system. He watched Kara ease her tumbler towards Jack’s, then take a sip, and something in her hesitancy warned him that all was not well between Kara and his son.

Gilchrist and Jack spent the next hour reminiscing, with Kara silent on the sidelines. They touched on life together as a family, Gilchrist recalling the fight Jack and Maureen had over who was going to sit first on the swan potty, and how in the end they sat on it together. The sight of their two little faces straining in unison had sent Gilchrist into fits. Looking back, he could see that, even then, Gail had begun to lose her sense of humour. The swan potty had disappeared not long after.

Gilchrist revealed to Jack how, on the first night after Gail’s departure, he had ended up drunk and flat on his back in the Whey Pat Tavern, where his relationship with Gail had first begun, and how he had struggled to hold back his tears. He was surprised when Jack told him Gail had cried, too. And throughout their reminiscing, Gilchrist was conscious of Kara being sidelined. She seemed to brighten when he suggested they return home, and after Jack swallowed his third one-for-the-road, they set off.

Back home, Jack did his best to finish The Macallan 10 before midnight, and all the while Kara sat on the edge of the sofa, like some stranger seated on the periphery of a family gathering. Just after midnight, she excused herself, and was about to step from the living room when Gilchrist stood.

‘S’too early for bed, Andy. Come on, man. Sit. Have another one.’

‘I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,’ Gilchrist said to Kara.

Kara stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek. As he watched her slim figure leave the room without acknowledging Jack, he lifted his hand to where her lips had pressed, not sure if the dampness he felt on his cheek was from her lipstick or her tears.

He stared at his refilled glass. The Macallan 10 was almost done. He turned to Jack, wanted to ask him about Kara, but the effort to speak seemed too much. He tried a sip, but the whisky no longer slid down his throat like warmed oil, and had to be forced back with a painful grimace. Heartburn nipped at his gut. He would suffer for this in the morning.

He pushed his glass to the side. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said.

Jack held up the bottle. ‘C’mon, Andy. Still some left.’

‘It won’t go to waste, Jack. Goodnight.’

As he left the room, he caught Jack topping up his glass.

Morning hit Gilchrist with the shock of a blaring radio alarm and the dazed realization that he was in someone else’s bed. He turned his head to the tinny din. Pain shot through his neck. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt as dry as cardboard. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue felt thick and stiff as if it belonged to something else.

He struggled on to his side and managed to switch off the alarm. The display read 6.33. Why had he set it so early? Could he have just ten more minutes?

When he next looked, the alarm clock read 7.39.

He pulled the continental quilt to the side, felt a rush of cold air hit him. As his feet hit the floor he felt some measure of comfort that he’d had the sense and the decency to undress before going to bed.

He made it to the bathroom without stubbing his toes on unfamiliar furniture, or throwing up. Scrunching his eyes against the bright light, he grimaced into the mirror. An old man stared back at him, skin grey and salted, eyes creased and bagged. He combed his fingers through his hair, turned on the hot tap. It ran cold, and he splashed some into his mouth where his tongue soaked it up like a desiccated sponge.

He shaved using Jack’s razor and a new blade he found in the cabinet. Then he showered, hot steaming water that he let filter every pore. He lifted his head to the spray, opened his mouth, gurgled and spat. Not a pretty sight, but ten minutes later he felt almost ready to take on the world – or Jeanette Pennycuick, at least.

In the kitchen, he found some fresh orange juice and Irn-Bru and poured himself a large glass, peachy-pink. He burped as Kara entered the kitchen. She looked young and fresh, her pale skin enhanced by cream silk pyjamas, through which the tips of her nipples pressed. She stood in bare feet, her toes as long and slender as fingers.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Stomach.’

‘At least you apologize.’ She held the kettle under the tap. ‘Tea? Coffee? You mustn’t miss breakfast.’

Gilchrist glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll catch something later.’

He was about to step from the kitchen when Kara said, ‘Could I talk to you?’ She shook her head. ‘Not now, I mean. Later. When you’ve got some time.’

‘Sure,’ he said, and gave her his mobile number. ‘Call any time.’

‘I care for Jack,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’

‘Why do you think you’ll lose him?’

She held his gaze, as if deciding whether or not to tell him. ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’

He nodded, then headed for the door, wondering if the changes he’d seen in Jack were what would cause Kara to lose him.

CHAPTER 6

Outside, low clouds seemed ready to smother the city.

Gilchrist found his Roadster where he had left it, relieved to find it had not been clamped. When he sat behind the wheel, he knew from the way he breathed and coughed that he was well over the limit. Before closing the door, he spat a lump of phlegm to the ground, and swore he would never drink whisky again.

He eased the car from the lane in search of a coffee.

Jeanette Pennycuick’s home looked more imposing in the cold light of day. He pulled up behind a silver BMW, then took another sip of his Starbucks. Tall latté was about as hard as he could stomach. It tasted warm and milky and cut through the slag in his mouth. He stuffed the container into the holder in the console, then tore open a packet of chewing gum he hoped would keep his breath fresh, or at least rid his mouth of the residual taste of stale alcohol.

He strode up the gravel path. The grass either side lay neat and trim, and what he had at first taken to be a dark and dingy building was in fact an old stone residence that had been maintained with care. Window frames glistened with fresh paint. Plant beds looked dark and fresh and free of weeds. Even the lion flowerpots seemed more tame, the doorknob harmless.

He pressed the doorbell, coughed his throat clear as the door cracked open.

An attractive woman, who looked to be in her early fifties, stood before him.

He tried a smile. ‘Jeanette Pennycuick?’

‘Yes?’

He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Gilchrist,’ he said, choosing not to mention he was with Fife Constabulary. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Questions? What about?’

‘Routine enquiry.’

She frowned, as if uncertain whether to believe him or not.

‘Inside might be better,’ he suggested.

‘We’re running late.’

‘I won’t keep you.’

‘Problem, darling?’ The man’s voice blasted from the depths of the hall a moment before he, too, appeared in the doorway.

‘It’s the police, Geoffrey.’

He was a good six inches taller than his wife, and glared down at Gilchrist like a Roman emperor about to give the thumbs-down. Gilchrist almost expected the petrified lions to spring to life. ‘Is there some problem?’

‘Routine enquiry.’

‘We’re running late.’

‘I won’t keep your wife long.’ Gilchrist wondered if they could see through his alcoholic glaze and know he had been pretty much legless the night before. He chewed his gum, but the fur persisted like moss in grass. Then, with a speed that almost made him start, Pennycuick removed a mobile from his suit pocket, a gesture at which his wife stepped back as if in resigned agreement.

As Gilchrist followed her into the front lounge, he heard her husband bark into the phone that all his appointments should be pushed back one hour. Just how late were they running anyway?

The front lounge looked and smelled of money. Cornicing bordered the high ceiling. The walls were dark, papered in a rich burgundy. A Bechstein grand piano stood in the corner by the curved bay window, cleared of clutter and glistening with the fresh sheen of varnish. Side tables, four in total, dark wood and polished, accompanied the seating, their tops littered with framed family photographs.

Jeanette held out her hand, directing Gilchrist to a sofa close to the piano. As he sat, she took the chair opposite, conjuring an image in his mind of her listening to her husband playing.

Gilchrist nodded to the piano. ‘Do you play?’

‘No.’

‘Your husband?’

‘The children.’

On the table to his left, a gallery of framed photographs stood like a phalanx of some two-dimensional army. He eyed the closest frame. ‘Is this them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Names?’

‘Penny and James.’

The boy looked frail and tired, barely smiling at the camera. Beside him stood a young girl, more attractive than beautiful, and he wondered what kind of parents would dare name their daughter Penny Pennycuick.

‘Gone to school already, have they?’

‘They’re both through university.’

Pennycuick entered the front room, stuffing his phone into his inside jacket pocket. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I have a busy day ahead. What’s this about?’

Gilchrist rested his elbows on his knees, tempted for a moment to ignore him. ‘I’m here to talk to your wife,’ he replied. ‘So don’t let me keep you from your office.’

‘Hospital. I’m a consultant at the Western. And I drive my wife to the city centre. Who did you say you were with?’ he ordered.

‘I didn’t. But I’m with Fife Constabulary.’

‘Fife?’ He frowned. ‘Are you not out of your jurisdiction?’

Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet. At six-one, he stood a couple of inches shorter than Pennycuick. ‘I can obtain a warrant, if that would make you feel more comfortable. Then we could talk at Police Headquarters in Glenrothes in a day or so.’ He let his words settle. ‘Or we can talk now. Informally.’ He smiled at both of them in turn. ‘Whichever way’s fine with me.’

‘How can we help?’ It was Jeanette.

Gilchrist decided to remain standing. He explained about the skeleton, and how the police were now tasked with identifying the woman they guessed had been in her late teens, early twenties when she had died. Both Jeanette and her husband listened in silence.

‘You were at St Andrews University in ’69.’

‘Yes. I graduated in ’71 with a first in English Lit.’

He asked her where and when she was born, where she lived as a child, what her parents did, why she chose St Andrews, and all the while her husband shuffled around in the background with barely masked impatience. Gilchrist strode past the piano and looked out of the bay window. On the opposite side of the street, a row of terraced houses staggered up the shallow incline. ‘Nice view,’ he said. ‘A bit different from life as a student.’

‘In what way?’

He turned, surprised by her question. ‘Living the life of penury,’ he said, and let his gaze drift around the room. ‘This is a palatial home.’

‘My parents are wealthy,’ she explained. ‘I’ve lived in moderate luxury most of my life.’

‘Even as a student?’

She shook her head. ‘My parents wanted me to learn a bit about life, or so they told me. I lived in a rented flat in St Andrews. Bit of a dump, really. They paid all the bills, so what I learned I really don’t know.’

‘Any room-mates?’

‘Three.’

‘Names?’

‘Oh, my goodness. Now you
are
testing my memory.’

Gilchrist’s own memory for names was not the greatest, but he could still remember the person with whom he first shared a flat. Sammy McFarland. Laugh-a-minute Sammy. Drink-a-minute, too.

‘Betty Forbes,’ she said. ‘Betty and I were best friends back then. Inseparable, I would have said. But we haven’t spoken in almost five years.’ Her gaze flickered over Gilchrist’s shoulder, and he detected a stiffening in her posture.