Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

darkness.
    But not before his dying sight caught tartan turn-ups and brown brogues.

CHAPTER 31
     
    When Gilchrist came to, he was trussed and gagged and naked.
    And lying on a sheet of plastic that crinkled with every move.
    A dull pain burned the nape of his neck. The taste of oil and dirt lay thick on his tongue. A piece of sacking was jammed into his mouth, held in place by a rough rope that cut into his face and crushed his ears. His hands were twisted behind his back. When he tried to move, something tugged at his ankles, telling him he was hog-tied.
    For a second, panic swept through him in an acid attack that threatened to heave bile from his stomach and choke him to death. He tried to still his heart, take long breaths through his nose, force his mind away from even the thought of throwing up.
    Just keep breathing. Deep and slow. Deep and slow.
    He could not tell how long he had been out, only that it was dark. Despite the cold, sweat tickled the corner of one eye. He felt light-headed from lack of air, and fought off the overpowering need to have the gag removed. He tried to force his thoughts awake, work out what had happened, or more to the point, what was about to happen.
    His legs felt cramped, and a deep ache worked its way through his thighs and buttocks and into his back and shoulders. He tried to ease the pain, rolled on to his side and cursed when the cartilage of his ear hit something hard and metallic. He held still for several seconds while the pain faded.
    Where was he? What time was it? It felt cold enough to be night.
    He lifted his head to the metal thing that had cut his ear, and tried to feel it with his nose. He could not tell what it was, only that it seemed to form part of the lid of whatever box he was in, and that it had a hard, straight edge. He twisted his body, pressed his cheek against the metal bar, felt the rope that held his gag catch, then slip off.
    He tried again, pressed harder, ignored the pain in his cheek as he eased back, hoping he was not tearing skin from his face. The rope slipped from the edge of the bar, but it felt different, not so tight, and cut across his cheeks at a different angle.
    Four attempts later, he was able to shake the rope free and spit the sacking and oiled dirt from his mouth. He breathed in long cool gulps of fresh air that brought life back to his body. It took him a few seconds longer to work out that he was locked in the boot of some car. The smell of petrol and oil, musty and unclean, reminded him of Megs’ old Vauxhall.
    Was he in Megs’ garage?
    He worked his way around the confined space, contorting his body to probe the tiniest of corners with his fingers, touch some wires, lift the edge of some boot covering, search for anything sharp enough to cut the rope.
    As he struggled, his powers of reasoning came back to him.
    Dougie and Megs were in it together. Of that he was certain. Between them they had concocted a string of events that had delayed the discovery of Kelly’s disappearance and even had the wrong police force searching for her. But which of them had killed her, Gilchrist could not say.
    Perhaps Dougie. With his fear of flying, he would have needed someone he could trust, someone he knew would keep his secret, someone who would fly to Mexico for him and send the postcard to Kelly’s parents, that single piece of evidence that would clear the crime from the shores of Scotland. Who better than his soulmate, Megs?
    Or maybe Megs had caught Dougie and Kelly in flagrante delicto and, in a fit of rage, the stirrings of which Gilchrist had witnessed earlier, had decided to put a permanent stop to their sexual liaison. Or perhaps Megs and Dougie had done it together, taken advantage of Kelly’s inquisitive sexual nature, maybe convinced her to engage in a threesome and, at the moment of truth, or penetration, or whatever, one of them changed their mind and—
    He stilled.
    His fingers gripped a plastic cover on the side of the boot, with a knob that released it and gave access to what felt like a plastic toolbox. He battled against the pain of the rope as he groped in the darkness, worked at the toolbox latch, opened it and felt inside.
    His hand landed upon a socket with a bent handle, for loosening wheel bolts. He searched for a blade-headed screwdriver, one he might use to cut through the rope, but from the way he was trussed, he worried he could not twist his wrists sufficiently to cut himself free.
    The sound of a padlock