Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

she continued. ‘The Traffic Accident Report confirmed that pieces from a broken headlamp identified the car as an MGB GT, and slivers of paint confirmed the car was blaze. That orange colour was popular back then. Probably F or G registration.’ She sipped her gin and tonic and stared at him.
    ‘And?’
    ‘The accident happened in April ’69. Here, in St Andrews. You were twelve. Jack was about to turn eighteen. It was that single failure of the local police to find the hit-and-run driver that led you to become a detective.’
    Gilchrist held her gaze.
    ‘Jack’s death has haunted you ever since.’
    ‘If you want to write that,’ he said, ‘go ahead. You have my permission.’
    She leaned across the table. ‘I want to know how you felt, Andy. I want to know how many nights you cried yourself to sleep, how often you visited the scene of the accident, how often you went to the police. But most of all,’ and she leaned closer like a conspirator planning a murder, ‘I want to know what you wrote.’
    Gilchrist tried to keep the surprise from his face.
    She pulled herself back, drew on her Marlboro as if she needed to inhale its fire to live, then exhaled through her nose. ‘I know about the diaries you kept after Jack.’
    He shook his head. ‘There was nothing in them except childish gibberish. Besides,’ he said, and gave a wry smile, ‘I threw them away.’
    ‘No you didn’t.’
    He almost laughed. ‘Those diaries were destroyed years ago.’
    ‘No, they weren’t.’
    He frowned. He had kept the diaries for years, even after he married, forgotten them, then discovered them brown-paged and dusty in the attic when he sold the matrimonial home after Gail moved to Glasgow. Then it struck him. Gina must have spoken to Gail. But Gail had been ill for months. ‘So when did you speak to my ex-wife?’ he asked.
    Another draw that pinched her cheeks to the shape of her skull. She crossed her legs, giving Gilchrist a flash of white knickers, then turned her head and exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘About six months ago.’
    Gilchrist frowned. What else did she know about him?
    ‘Here’s what I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘Your exclusive authorization to write your story.’
    ‘A biography, you mean.’
    ‘More than just your run-of-the-mill biography. I want a detailed account of how you solved your most famous cases. I want you to tell me about this sixth sense of yours—’
    ‘There’s nothing magical about it,’ he complained. ‘It’s just logical deduction.’
    ‘That’s not how I hear it.’ She drew on her Marlboro, chinned her shoulder and blew it out. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I know all about sixth senses. And then some.’
    Gilchrist took a sip of beer, not liking the subject.
    ‘And I want sight of all your diaries,’ she pressed on. ‘In return, we split all royalties fifty-fifty. I’ll have my publisher draw up a contract for your solicitor. Once everyone’s happy, we sign. Then we talk, and I start to write.’ She leaned on the table. ‘Sound fair?’
    Gilchrist glared back at her, resisting the urge to push his pint away and leave. He could almost make out his reflection in the dark pools of her eyes, just about see his puzzled frown work its way across his forehead. He looked away from her, stared at his pint, picked it up, put it down. Then he held her gaze again.
    ‘Problem?’ she asked.
    He had never understood how his thought processes worked, this gut-driven feeling that twisted his insides and forced his logic down one path to reach its conclusion at the expense of all others. Perhaps it was her persistence over his brother’s accident, or the way her hands moved or her fingers shifted when she clicked her diamond-studded lighter. But something had triggered his thoughts, worked away at some level deep in the chasms of his mind, almost out of reach of all conscious logic.
    He flipped open his mobile, pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, half aware of the victory smile on her face, as if she knew what he was thinking.
    But how could she? How could anyone?
    As he waited for his call to be answered, he walked to the centre of Market Street, breathed in the cold October night, all of a sudden conscious of the heavy pounding in his chest. His convoluted logic had come up with a ridiculous conclusion. He was wrong. He had to be.
    But he needed to make sure.
    ‘Mackie speaking.’
    ‘Bert,’ snapped Gilchrist. ‘The lighter.