Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

continued. ‘My Bob was turning into a right fat slob. God knows what that bitch saw in him.’ She chuckled. ‘Come to think of it, God knows what I ever saw in him.’ She shook her head as she ducked into a head-high fridge. ‘The guest bathroom needs retiling. Use the master bathroom. It’s through the back. Towels are hanging over the radiator. Use as many as you like. I do. I just love them all warm and fluffy. Don’t you?’ She looked at him, and her face split into a white-toothed, blue-eyed grin. ‘Are you helpless, or what?’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, but I’m not sure I’m going to get a word in edgeways.’
    She held up a tin of John West tuna. ‘I always get it in brine. Never oil. Doesn’t taste the same. On you go and have your shower. I’ll have one after you. I always like to have a cuppa before I shower. Never understood why, just do. And I promise I’ll keep this trap of mine shut while you ask me what you want to know. That suit you?’
    Gilchrist nodded.
    ‘What’s this about anyways?’
    ‘A thirty-five-year-old skeleton. And Jeanette Pennycuick,’ he added, intrigued by the way her face froze and her eyes fired up. ‘I won’t be long.’
    The bathroom was tiled floor to ceiling and had about it an airy freshness he liked. The window was open and looked down on to the neighbour’s back garden. He heard voices from below, but saw no movement. In the shower cubicle, he was surprised to find a bar of Aramis soap-on-a-rope hanging from the nozzle. And Brylcreem shampoo. She could have been expecting him.
    Ten minutes later, he returned to the kitchen, refreshed and surprised by how hungry he felt from the smell of tea and toast.
    ‘Help yourself,’ she said, nodding to the plate. ‘I like mine toasted. I’ve made some with plain bread, too. I’ll be back in a mo.’
    Gilchrist waited until he heard the bedroom door click shut before he stepped away from the table.
    In the utility room off the kitchen, he read handwritten notes pinned to cork boards, mostly names and numbers. A calendar hung on the wall, with printed notes in daily squares. Dentist at ten on Wednesday. May and Rhonda round for a curry on Saturday at seven thirty. Hairdresser today at two.
    In the lounge, tucked behind a clock, he came across a number of photographs folded flat. One of a younger Betty, hair sprung in a blonde perm. By her side, an older man with balding head and swelling waist.
My Bob
before he became a
right fat slob?
Another of a once happy couple on a strip of beach, their skin and faces glowing copper red. Caribbean? Spain? He eyed the other photographs, but found none showing any children. A drinks trolley sat in the corner of the dining room, displaying mostly gins. Beefeater. Gordons. Boodles. He picked up the Boodles. It had been a while since he’d tried any—
    ‘Can I help you?’
    Gilchrist replaced the Boodles on the trolley. ‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ he said.
    ‘Could have fooled me.’ She held his gaze for a long second, then nodded to the kitchen. ‘You haven’t eaten.’
    ‘Thought I’d wait until you returned.’
    ‘To give you more time to pry?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have, but . . .’
    ‘It runs in your blood. Being a detective. Right?’ She smiled, and her face seemed to light up, as if to let him know she couldn’t have cared less if she’d found him with his head under the settee. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat.’
    They sat opposite each other at a four-seater circular oak table. ‘I’ll play mum,’ she said, lifting the teapot. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
    ‘A little milk. No sugar.’
    ‘I like my tea the way I like my men. White and sweet.’ She laughed, then patted her stomach. ‘I shouldn’t take sugar. But there you go.’
    ‘Try sweetener.’
    ‘It’s not the same.’ She stirred his mug and slid it to him.
    Between bites of sandwich and sips of tea, Gilchrist asked about her earlier life, her reasons for attending St Andrews, her family background, and all the while she answered with a willingness he found refreshing. But her answers told him nothing new. She knew of no one who had gone missing from the university. It was not until he tackled her about sharing accommodation with Jeanette Pennycuick that he sensed the first hint of animosity.
    ‘Can you remember the names of any of the other flatmates?’ he asked.
    She shook her head.
    He thought it was important