Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

slabs, some of which had been lifted to expose fill as grey and soft as crushed ash. A fence, dilapidated and overgrown with ivy, defined the end of her property. To the side, the back of the house reared more than two storeys skyward. A few yards away, by a green whirligig, broken slabs lay piled like the beginnings of a concrete bonfire.
    ‘Doing this by yourself?’ he asked.
    She dragged a gloved hand through her hair. ‘Who else is there to help me?’
    ‘No Mr Forbes?’
    ‘Done a runner.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
    ‘Don’t be. The son of a bitch’d been screwing his secretary behind my back for the best part of three years.’ She almost laughed. ‘Last I heard, she’d left him for a younger stud.’
    Gilchrist heard Jeanette Pennycuick’s words remind him,
She tried to have an affair with my husband
, and he wondered if Betty’s husband’s affair had something to do with that. ‘When did this happen?’ he asked. ‘Mr Forbes doing a runner.’
    ‘Six years ago last Christmas. Can you believe he left on Christmas Day?’ She picked up a sledgehammer and raised it above her head with an ease that surprised Gilchrist. ‘Watch your eyes,’ she said, and slammed the sledgehammer on to the corner of a slab. It cracked with a dull thud.
    ‘You make it look easy.’
    ‘I pretend it’s his balls I’m crushing. It’s funny,’ she said, and laughed as she took another swing. ‘I imagine them wrapped up in Christmas paper. It gives me strength.’ She hit the broken piece twice more then threw the hammer down. ‘There. That ought to sort him out, don’t you think?’ She bent forward and pulled out chunks of broken concrete, which she threw on to the bonfire.
    ‘Like a hand?’
    She screwed up her eyes against a burst of sunlight. Standing like that, in denim jeans and polo shirt, teeth glinting white and strong, Gilchrist thought he had never before seen anyone display such sexual presence without even trying.
    ‘You offering to help?’
    ‘If you’d like.’
    ‘I thought men like you had vanished with the cowboys.’ She nodded to the sledgehammer. ‘You hit. I’ll pick up.’
    Gilchrist removed his jacket and threw it over the fence. He spat on his hands and gripped the sledgehammer. Its weight surprised him. ‘Same slab?’ He caught a quick nod as he pulled the sledgehammer back, swung it behind him, let its momentum carry it up and over. Then he shifted his weight, stepped forward and aimed for the middle of the slab.
    ‘What would I give to have muscles,’ she said, and bent down to pull out the broken pieces.
    ‘They wouldn’t suit you.’
    She glanced up at him and smiled, then swung her body to the side and threw a chunk of concrete on to the pile.
    You’d get more for these slabs unbroken,’ he offered.
    ‘They’re too heavy for me to lift. Until you turned up, the only way I could move them was to break them into smaller pieces.’
    ‘Like me to try?’
    ‘I’m only breaking up another four or five,’ she said. ‘That’s all the flowerbeds I’ll need. The rest I’ll keep as a walkway.’
    They worked together for the next half-hour, Gilchrist swinging the hammer, Betty leaning forward, using her arms and her upper body to lug the pieces of concrete to the side. On the last slab, he helped clear the broken pieces, surprised by how at ease he felt being next to her.
    Then it was done.
    She stood. Sweat glistened on her forehead and at the open neck of her polo shirt.
    Gilchrist felt his own shirt stick to his back.
    ‘Thirsty work,’ she said. ‘Like a drink?’
    ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ He stood back as she picked up the sledgehammer, slung it over her shoulder and marched up the side of her house. The physical work had done wonders for his hangover, and he pushed his fingers through his hair, surprised to find how damp with sweat it was.
    She dumped the tools at the side of the garage, kicked off her heavy boots and stepped inside. Gilchrist removed his own shoes and followed.
    The kitchen was small and airy and smelled of flowers and lemon. The window lay open, and warm air from a sun-trapped corner of the garden wafted in on the breeze. In the bright sunlight it could have been the middle of summer.
    ‘Why don’t you have a shower while I rustle up a sandwich? It has to be chicken or tuna, I’m afraid. What’ll you have?’
    ‘Whatever you’re having.’
    ‘You look as if you could do with putting on some weight, though,’ she