Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

found a parking spot in The Scores and five minutes later was standing at the bar, a creamy pint of Eighty-Shilling in his hand. It somehow felt odd having stood on that same spot the night before with Gina Belli, all eyes turned her way while she stripped off her jacket. He wondered if the real reason for stopping at the Dunvegan was his secret hope that she would be there, that he was looking for her, this Gina Belli, the psychic detective in the business suit with waistcoat and no blouse and a tan that pronounced to all who ogled that she was a woman from another part of the world. And don’t you forget it.
    His mobile vibrated.
    ‘Stan said you wanted me to call,’ said Nance.
    ‘Only when you found something.’
    ‘I’ve got a few names and addresses that might give us a start.’
    ‘Let’s have them.’
    ‘Well, working on your theory that the body was buried at the same time as Hamish McLeod, that works out to be the year Jeanette Grant entered her second year of university. I concentrated on that year first, then the year either side of that. If we draw a blank with these names, I can dig into other years.’
    ‘So, what have you got?’
    ‘Eight in total. All now married. Six in Scotland, two in England. One lives near here, in Cupar.’
    As he listened to Nance go through her list of names like a roll call, he thought of the cigarette lighter, and wondered if that was reason enough to focus only on the four cigar-smoking students who drank Moscow Mules in the Central—
    ‘Stop,’ he snapped. ‘Go back, go back. Who was that?’
    ‘Agnes Bullock, née McIver?’
    ‘No, no. Before that.’
    ‘Margaret Ewart, née Caulder?’
    ‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘She lives in Cupar. Right?’
    ‘You know her?’
    ‘Douglas Ewart’s ex-wife. Megs, he called her. Ewart was at McLeod’s funeral.’ He caught the bartender’s eye and gestured for a pen and paper. ‘You and Stan talk to Megs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll visit Jeanette Grant. Is that her married name?’
    ‘No. Jeanette Pennycuick.’
    ‘How d’you spell that?’ he asked, and wrote it down. ‘Telephone number?’
    He noted the Glasgow code, which had him thinking he could kill two birds, maybe three, with the one stone. ‘Once you’ve talked to Megs,’ he said, ‘get on with the others.’
    ‘With all due respect, Andy, this is only one avenue,’ Nance said. ‘We’ve nothing to confirm the skeleton was even that of a student.’
    ‘Any other suggestions?’
    ‘Have you thought of digital reconstruction?’
    ‘That’s why I’m going to visit Pennycuick.’
    A pause, then, ‘I don’t follow.’
    ‘Glasgow University, Nance. And Dr Heather Black of the Computing Science Department and the Turing Institute.’
    ‘Is she any good?’
    ‘Pioneering, I think you would call her. But until we have a visual to work from, I’m afraid it’s good old-fashioned detective work. Talk to people. Ask questions. Poke and prod. All right?’
    ‘I’m on it.’
    ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ he tried.
    A pause, then, ‘I’m busy, Andy. I can’t.’
    ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Keep me posted.’
    He tried Jeanette Pennycuick’s number, but after six rings a woman’s aristocratic voice ordered him to
leave a number and someone will return your call
.
    He eyed the scribbled address, knew enough about Glasgow to know it was located in the West End, where Jack lived. He had not visited Jack for a couple of months, so he asked Sheena if he could borrow a bottle of The Macallan 10.
    He left his Eighty half finished and stepped into the damp October chill.

CHAPTER 5
     
    The drive to Glasgow cast up more images of Gail.
    Gilchrist had thought, perhaps even hoped, that at the moment of her passing he and Gail would somehow make peace with each other, for the memories they shared, for the love they once had, for the children they brought into the world.
    From the moment he first set eyes on her he had loved her. He had loved her cheeky irreverence of things authoritarian. When they had staggered across the golf course and she stepped from her knickers in the Valley of Sin and giggled at the look on his face as she lay down on the damp grass, he had loved the simple symbolism of that action. This is my life, she was saying to him. No one can tell me what to do. Come share it with me. He had loved her for that. He had loved her through a short but torrid courtship and nineteen difficult years of marriage that swung with