Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

plastic crates, clothes folded badly, rows of leather boots, shoes, half a library of paperbacks, bicycles by the dozen, littered the floors and climbed the walls. In the far corner by a curtained window he glimpsed a scythe, its curved wooden handle grey with age.
    They followed Sammy into a room with drawn curtains. The floor was cramped from more junk, except for a cleared space in the middle of a threadbare carpet. A television sat on an upturned milk crate, a wire aerial perched on top. A fuzzy black-and-white picture filled its screen, faced by a wooden chair with a single cushion.
    ‘I’d offer you a seat. But I’ve only got the one.’
    ‘We’re used to standing,’ said Gilchrist.
    ‘Do yous golf?’
    Gilchrist followed Sammy’s gaze to a bundle of knotted plastic bags on the floor that bulged with the pimpled swelling of what had to be hundreds of golf balls.
    ‘A way to make some spare cash, son, without the taxman knowing. I walk the golf courses, like. But I’m no stupid. I know where to look. See?’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Gives me money for beer.’
    ‘How much do you sell them for?’ Stan asked.
    ‘Three for a pound. Thirty-five pee each.’
    Stan peered at the rows of bags. ‘Any Titleist Pro V-1s?’
    ‘Aye, son. But they’re a good ball.’ Sammy coughed again, a heavy burst of phlegm that had Gilchrist thinking the old man had pneumonia. From a box behind him, Sammy pulled out another plastic bag. ‘I have to charge fifty pee each for these ones, son. That’s two for a pound. Take as many as you like.’
    Stan took hold of the bag.
    ‘While Tiger’s going through the stash,’ Gilchrist said, ‘I’d like to ask a few questions. We’re here about Hamish McLeod’s funeral.’
    Sammy scowled. ‘I hope they make as much fuss about my funeral as they’re making about that miserable old sod’s.’
    ‘What was your relationship to Hamish?’
    ‘I wisnae related to—’
    ‘I know that, Sammy. But why did you go to his funeral?’
    ‘As a mark of respect, like.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’
    ‘It wisnae out of respect for that thieving bastard,’ growled Sammy, his eyes taking on a distant look. ‘It was for Lorella. She was a fine-looking woman, son,’ he said, and stared at some spot on the wall.
    Gilchrist thought he now understood the reason for Sammy’s dislike of Hamish. He waited until the old man’s gaze returned to him with a couple of blinks, as if surprised to find he was still alive. ‘We’re trying to establish the names of everyone who attended the funeral. Could I ask you to go through them again?’
    ‘I done that last night, son.’
    ‘Maybe a name or two came back to you in your dreams.’ He tapped Stan on the arm. Stan pulled out his notebook.
    Sammy shut his eyes and recited each name in turn, Stan ticking them off as he did so. The old man’s eyes flickered as if watching some action on the back of paper-thin eyelids, each name followed by a nod. At last, he looked at Gilchrist. ‘Of course, my Jenny was alive back then.’
    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