Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

or that you’d be thrown out of university? That your dreams of becoming a doctor would be lost? With a wife and child to support, how would you—’
    ‘Shut up.’
    Gilchrist leaned closer, tried to engage Ewart’s guilt-laden eyes. He wanted to tell him that Kelly could never have been pregnant. She had been on the pill. Jack had let that slip one night. With her promiscuous lifestyle, she had taken no chances. Telling Ewart that she was pregnant had been her way of ending whatever relationship Ewart thought they had. He saw that now. Kelly must have known Ewart would run a mile. But had he been scared enough to kill her? Gilchrist thought not.
    ‘And Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ he pressed on. ‘Once Megs found out, she threatened to do what, exactly?’
    Ewart lifted his eyes, as if pleased to be discussing something he knew about. ‘Megs is not right in the head,’ he said. ‘But other than my wife, she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.’
    ‘So you went along with her plan to kill Kelly. The postcard was sent. By the time it arrived in the States, Kelly was already dead and buried.’ Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Did you not try to talk her out of it?’
    Ewart closed his eyes, shook his head.
    Gilchrist decided to try another tack. ‘I see you’re right-handed.’
    Ewart’s eyes sprang open, as if in surprise at the comment.
    ‘Kelly’s fatal injury was on the right side of her head. Just about here.’ Gilchrist tapped his temple. An image of Kelly in bed, rolling away from Ewart to face the wall where they found the blood spatter, forced its way to the front of his mind. ‘You waited until she turned her back to you.’
    Ewart’s eyes seemed to glaze over, as if recalling the memory of that fatal blow.
    ‘You never even had the courage to look her in the eyes.’ Gilchrist leaned closer, hoped Ewart could feel his hatred. But the man appeared to have switched off. ‘I checked the weather records. It rained heavily that week. You dressed Kelly up in a jacket so you could lug her, like a drunk, out of the flat and into your car.’
    Nothing.
    ‘When Hamish McLeod died, the opportunity presented itself. You had to act when the grave was fresh. You killed her that night. Or maybe the following night.’ He counted thirty seconds before saying, ‘Which one of you buried her body?’
    ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘I must say, I never would have thought you were Kelly’s type.’
    Ewart tried one more defiant look. ‘And your brother was?’
    ‘Thought you didn’t know her.’
    ‘I didn’t.’
    ‘But you knew Jack was going out with her.’
    Ewart seemed confused by Gilchrist’s simple statement. Saying he agreed would only confirm his lie. He dug himself deeper with, ‘That’s what I heard.’
    ‘Who from?’
    ‘One of the idiots who questioned me.’
    ‘We’ll replay the recording, check it out, see who said what.’
    Ewart stared at some point on the wall.
    ‘You scratched Jack’s initials on the cigarette lighter.’
    Ewart blinked once, twice, at the memory.
    ‘Then dropped it in beside Kelly. If her body was ever found, then there was the evidence pointing to Jack, his own personalized lighter that must have slipped from his pocket as he was burying the body.’
    Ewart lowered his head, tightened his lips.
    ‘Talk to me, Dougie. Tell me what happened.’
    But Ewart seemed to have decided it was safer to say nothing.
     
    As Gilchrist was preparing to leave the office, Stan caught up with him.
    ‘Would you like an update on Fairclough, boss?’
    Trying to convince Greaves of his own innocence in Kelly’s murder investigation had caused Gilchrist’s mind to switch off all thoughts of Fairclough. His career had effectively been put on hold, pending DNA results from the postcards’ stamps. As he struggled to interpret Stan’s expression, he felt a need to swallow a lump in his throat.
    ‘We’ve got him.’
    Gilchrist frowned, his thoughts entangled.
    ‘He’s got a record,’ Stan went on. ‘And the fingerprints we lifted from the broken bottles are a match.’
    ‘The Molotov cocktail?’
    Stan nodded. ‘If the DNA tests from the MGB are positive, we have a connection and enough evidence to throw the book at him.’
    Gilchrist reached out for Stan, felt strong arms clamp his own.
    ‘You all right, boss?’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Something clamped his chest, like a steel band that squeezed