Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

like some stranger seated on the periphery of a family gathering. Just after midnight, she excused herself, and was about to step from the living room when Gilchrist stood.
    ‘S’too early for bed, Andy. Come on, man. Sit. Have another one.’
    ‘I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,’ Gilchrist said to Kara.
    Kara stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek. As he watched her slim figure leave the room without acknowledging Jack, he lifted his hand to where her lips had pressed, not sure if the dampness he felt on his cheek was from her lipstick or her tears.
    He stared at his refilled glass. The Macallan 10 was almost done. He turned to Jack, wanted to ask him about Kara, but the effort to speak seemed too much. He tried a sip, but the whisky no longer slid down his throat like warmed oil, and had to be forced back with a painful grimace. Heartburn nipped at his gut. He would suffer for this in the morning.
    He pushed his glass to the side. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said.
    Jack held up the bottle. ‘C’mon, Andy. Still some left.’
    ‘It won’t go to waste, Jack. Goodnight.’
    As he left the room, he caught Jack topping up his glass.
     
    Morning hit Gilchrist with the shock of a blaring radio alarm and the dazed realization that he was in someone else’s bed. He turned his head to the tinny din. Pain shot through his neck. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt as dry as cardboard. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue felt thick and stiff as if it belonged to something else.
    He struggled on to his side and managed to switch off the alarm. The display read 6.33. Why had he set it so early? Could he have just ten more minutes?
    When he next looked, the alarm clock read 7.39.
    He pulled the continental quilt to the side, felt a rush of cold air hit him. As his feet hit the floor he felt some measure of comfort that he’d had the sense and the decency to undress before going to bed.
    He made it to the bathroom without stubbing his toes on unfamiliar furniture, or throwing up. Scrunching his eyes against the bright light, he grimaced into the mirror. An old man stared back at him, skin grey and salted, eyes creased and bagged. He combed his fingers through his hair, turned on the hot tap. It ran cold, and he splashed some into his mouth where his tongue soaked it up like a desiccated sponge.
    He shaved using Jack’s razor and a new blade he found in the cabinet. Then he showered, hot steaming water that he let filter every pore. He lifted his head to the spray, opened his mouth, gurgled and spat. Not a pretty sight, but ten minutes later he felt almost ready to take on the world – or Jeanette Pennycuick, at least.
    In the kitchen, he found some fresh orange juice and Irn-Bru and poured himself a large glass, peachy-pink. He burped as Kara entered the kitchen. She looked young and fresh, her pale skin enhanced by cream silk pyjamas, through which the tips of her nipples pressed. She stood in bare feet, her toes as long and slender as fingers.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Stomach.’
    ‘At least you apologize.’ She held the kettle under the tap. ‘Tea? Coffee? You mustn’t miss breakfast.’
    Gilchrist glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll catch something later.’
    He was about to step from the kitchen when Kara said, ‘Could I talk to you?’ She shook her head. ‘Not now, I mean. Later. When you’ve got some time.’
    ‘Sure,’ he said, and gave her his mobile number. ‘Call any time.’
    ‘I care for Jack,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’
    ‘Why do you think you’ll lose him?’
    She held his gaze, as if deciding whether or not to tell him. ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’
    He nodded, then headed for the door, wondering if the changes he’d seen in Jack were what would cause Kara to lose him.

CHAPTER 6
     
    Outside, low clouds seemed ready to smother the city.
    Gilchrist found his Roadster where he had left it, relieved to find it had not been clamped. When he sat behind the wheel, he knew from the way he breathed and coughed that he was well over the limit. Before closing the door, he spat a lump of phlegm to the ground, and swore he would never drink whisky again.
    He eased the car from the lane in search of a coffee.
    Jeanette Pennycuick’s home looked more imposing in the cold light of day. He pulled up behind a silver BMW, then took another sip of his Starbucks. Tall latté was about as hard as he could stomach. It tasted warm and milky