Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

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