Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

so-called experts who believe that working plasticine over the skull produces a much better result.’
    ‘You don’t agree?’
    ‘With some aspects, I do,’ she said. ‘But no matter which method is used, the skull provides us with certain measurements that dictate certain features. For example, the ratio of the distance between both eyes to that between the eyes and the mouth, gives some indication of the length of the nose. Not precise, by any manner of means. But it’s a guide. Where computer-aided facial reconstruction beats the hand-sculpted method hands down is in its ability to produce a number of variations.’
    ‘Would the age of the victim have any impact on the visual accuracy?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘I mean, a younger person would be less likely to have been in a nose-reconfiguring accident, or spent years picking their nose. The image could be more lifelike.’
    Black let out a short laugh. ‘You would have made a wonderful student,’ she said. ‘The face goes through all its major changes during puberty. Once you’re past the teenage years, what you have is basically it for life. Plastic surgery notwithstanding.’ She walked towards the door, and Gilchrist had the feeling their meeting was over.
    ‘Once we have an idea of the age,’ she continued, and opened the door, ‘we can still only reconstruct the face from the skull. Once we have the basic features, we can then age them.’ She held out her arm. Gilchrist stepped from her office. ‘Bags under the eyes. Wrinkled lips. Chicken necks. That sort of thing.’
    ‘So you will have seen yourself as an older woman?’ he tried.
    She emitted a high-pitched chuckle like a child’s scream. ‘I experimented with it once. Found it depressing.’
    ‘And the glasses?’
    She surprised him by slipping her arm through his and marching along the corridor.
    ‘That, I believe, was a turning point,’ she said. ‘My sight was so bad that I had to keep my glasses on to see the image on the screen. I liked what I saw, so I thought I’d give it a shot.’
    They reached another door, and she slipped her arm free. ‘Can you find your way from here?’
    ‘I’m sure I can.’
    ‘I’ll have something with you tomorrow.’
    She held out her hand, gave a firm shake, then turned on her heels and marched back to her office.

     
    Once Gilchrist was back on the M8, he called Nance.
    ‘That list of names you’ve got,’ he said to her. ‘Could you scan and email a copy to Jeanette Pennycuick?’ He read off her email address. ‘Was Betty Forbes on the list?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes. Betty Forbes, née Smith.’
    ‘Address?’
    ‘Somewhere in Glasgow, I think. Give me a minute.’
    ‘Shit.’ Gilchrist eyed the motorway signs and pulled across two lanes to the slip road for the city centre.
    ‘Here it is.’ She read it out, and Gilchrist assigned it to memory. It made sense, of course. If Jeanette and Betty had remained friends up until only five years ago, he should have guessed they lived in or around the same city. He asked for her telephone number, assigned that to memory too, and dialled it when he hung up with Nance.
    ‘Betty speaking.’ She sounded out of breath.
    Gilchrist introduced himself, again declining to mention he was with Fife Constabulary. ‘Are you available some time this morning for a chat?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘I’m going to the hairdresser’s this afternoon. I have an appointment at two.’
    ‘I could meet you before then.’
    He found Betty Forbes’ home before 11 a.m., a well-kept, splitlevel house that sat on a steep hill and seemed ready to fall away from the street. He rang the doorbell, was about to ring again when he was startled by a woman’s voice addressing him from the side.
    ‘I’m down in the back,’ she said.
    She stood at the corner of the building, gloved hands resting on a wooden garden gate. She smiled at him, an open grin that told him she was at ease with herself and the rest of the world.
    Betty Forbes?’
    ‘Last time I checked.’ She slipped her right hand from her garden gloves, pushed her fingers through a curl of dirty-blonde hair that dangled over her eyes and held out her hand.
    Gilchrist kept his grip gentle.
    She slipped her glove back on. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I’m trying to finish something in the garden. Can we talk in the back?’
    He followed her down a steep grass slope, through another wooden gate and into a level area consisting mostly of stone