Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

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