Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

being unclasped and a garage door opening stopped him. He listened to the screech of the door-spring and the rattle of the wheels as the garage door rolled overhead, then puzzled as the noise seemed to reverse and it closed again.
    He thought he caught the soft shuffle of shoes on concrete, then the unseen presence of someone close by, the click of the boot lid—
    The burst of light blinded him.
    Ewart stood over him like some colossus, the closed garage door in the background.
    ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I see you’ve been busy.’ He reached inside the boot for the oiled rag and discarded rope. ‘And this, too.’ He removed the toolbox. ‘I’m going to have to tie it tighter.’ He leaned forward, grabbed the rope that secured Gilchrist’s wrists to his ankles and gave a hard tug.
    ‘There’s no need for this, Dougie,’ Gilchrist gasped. ‘Think of what you’re doing—’
    ‘What I’m doing is making sure we don’t go to prison.’
    ‘You could strike a deal, work something out with—’
    ‘Premeditated murder is what you told Megs. We won’t be working anything out. But I’m surprised you found the postcards,’ he said. ‘What did you do with them?’
    ‘What postcards?’ Gilchrist tried.
    Ewart shook his head. ‘We’ll find them. And if we don’t? Well, after tonight, it won’t matter a damn.’ He leaned forward, placed one gloved hand behind Gilchrist’s head, pushed the oily rag into his mouth with the other. He tried to work the rope around Gilchrist’s head, but Gilchrist spat out the rag.
    Ewart stood back and smiled down at him. ‘Your choice,’ he said, dangling the rope with one hand, removing a syringe filled with clear fluid from his pocket with the other.
    Gilchrist stared at the needle, fighting back the rising panic. If Ewart injected him with whatever concoction the syringe contained, he would be unconscious in seconds, never to be revived, of that he was certain. Why had Ewart not already done that? His hesitation gave Gilchrist the answer.
    ‘A post-mortem would reveal drugs in my blood,’ he said, ‘which could point to someone in the medical profession.’
    ‘A detective to your dying breath, Andy. I’m impressed.’
    ‘And you don’t want to take that chance. Do you?’
    ‘As I said, it’s your choice.’
    Gilchrist eyed Ewart, stunned that he had never before seen the killer in him. Dead eyes belied a beguiling smile. A career as a doctor had made him immune to the feelings of the dying. But it seemed surreal to be having a conversation with his executioner-to-be. Like choosing from which side he would like his throat slit. Oh, from the right, please.
    ‘I’m waiting.’
    Gilchrist really had no decision to make. An injection ended it there and then. An oily rag in the mouth kept him alive, at least for the time being.
    ‘I won’t shout,’ he tried.
    ‘I know you won’t,’ Ewart agreed.
    Gilchrist opened his mouth to accept the rag, and Ewart leaned down and pressed it in with gloved hands. The rag was pushed in deeper than before and that, along with the stench of petrol and oil, nearly brought up the contents of his stomach. He worked his tongue and pushed the gag behind his teeth as Ewart, true to his word, tied the rope tighter around his face with a roughness intended to confirm he was not fooling around.
    ‘You won’t get out of that so easily,’ Ewart said, and left Gilchrist to stare out of the opened boot.
    The sound of chains rattling and something being dragged across the concrete floor caused the hairs on the back of Gilchrist’s neck to rise. He needed no explanation as a length of chain was lugged with some effort into the boot, the car settling on to its suspension springs from the added weight of an anchor.
    ‘You’re going for an eight-hundred-metre swim,’ Ewart said. ‘Straight down.’
    The boot lid slammed shut.
    Gilchrist lay still in the darkness, listening to the sound of the garage door opening, the crunch of Ewart’s shoes across gravel. The rope tight around his face brought tears to his eyes. Or was he really crying, knowing he was trapped, knowing he would never see his children again, and knowing that whatever Dougie and Megs had in store for him, this time no one would ever find the body?
    Eight hundred metres. Straight down.
    Was that any way to leave this world?
    He recalled the murder cases he had been involved in over his lifetime. How many other poor souls had left it the same way? How many innocent