Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

Do you still have it?’
    ‘What’s got you fired—’
    ‘Bert. Please. Have you?’
    ‘Hold on.’
    Gilchrist took a deep breath, then let it out in a long release, trying to slow the chatter of his heart. He paced the cobbles in the middle of the road, then faced the Central, the lights from within a warm contrast to the frost in the air, his breath fogging in the cold like steam.
    ‘I’ve got it,’ grumbled Mackie. ‘What about it?’
    Gilchrist looked to the sky, gave a silent prayer. ‘On the bottom,’ he said. ‘On the edge. Is it nicked?’
    ‘Nicked?’
    ‘Yes. Nicked.’ He could think of no other word. He pressed his mobile to his ear, could almost hear Mackie study the lighter with his magnifying glass. He stepped out of the way of a passing car and returned to the bar entrance. He reached out, gripped the door frame. Just in case.
    ‘Yes,’ said Mackie. ‘It is.’
    ‘How many?’
    ‘Looks like three.’
    ‘All on the same edge?’
    ‘One on one edge, and two on the opposite edge.’
    Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. He hung up. How was it possible? He looked around him, as if searching for the answer in the night shadows.
    JG. Not Geoffrey Pennycuick. Not Jeanette Grant.
    Three nicks. Two on one edge, one on the other. Conclusive. Unarguable.
    JG.
    The lighter was his brother’s.

CHAPTER 9
     
    ‘Don’t tell Mum and Dad.’
    ‘This is our secret, Andy. Just you and me.’
    Gilchrist’s fingers trembled as he eased his cigarette into the flame
.
    ‘Now suck in.’
    The heat from the lighter seemed to fire his mouth, and he almost let go
.
    ‘Now take a deep breath,’ Jack said. ‘Hold it. Then puff it out.’
    Gilchrist inhaled as he was told, felt dizziness surge through him, watched his brother’s face shift and shimmer. Then he let it out, but could not hold back a cough
.
    ‘Feel good?’
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.’
    Gilchrist sat back, holding the cigarette deep between his index and middle finger, his hand clasped over his mouth. He took another draw and exhaled through his nose, just the way Jack did
.
    ‘Here,’ said Jack, handing him the lighter
.
    The silver lighter gleamed as good as new, except . .
.
    ‘It’s scratched,’ said Gilchrist
.
    Jack nodded, blew smoke from his nostrils. ‘Two nicks. One for me and one for my girlfriend.’ He took a quick draw, pouted it out
.
    ‘Do you like your girlfriend?’
    ‘She’s special.’
    ‘Will you get married?’
    Jack retrieved his lighter and removed a penknife from his back pocket. He snapped the blade open, gouged another nick on the lighter’s edge. ‘That one’s for you, Andy. You’re special, too.’ He handed the lighter back
.
    Gilchrist rubbed his finger over the fresh scratch, then said, ‘So, will you?’
    Jack inhaled, long and deep, held his breath, as if the answer to the question was being formed through the molecules in his lungs. Then he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes as he looked at the bedroom ceiling and exhaled in one long, steady stream
.
    ‘One day,’ he said
.
     
    By the time Gilchrist returned to the bar his mind had already fired a fusillade of questions at him, the most worrying being, how had Jack’s lighter found its way into the woman’s grave? Was Jack in any way involved in her murder? That thought alone had a cold sweat tickling Gilchrist’s neck. But only he knew the nicks could place the lighter with his brother, and he made a pact to keep that to himself. At least for the time being. He could be wrong. There could be some simple explanation. But he found he could give it no further thought, for one other possibility had his mind spinning. Was it possible? Or was he being absurd? After all these years, could he now have a lead to his brother’s hit-and-run driver? And did his ridiculous thoughts on his immediate course of action make any sense?
    He picked up his pint, downed it in one.
    ‘Thirsty all of a sudden,’ Gina said.
    ‘Let’s go.’
    She caught up with him as he was stabbing the key into the Merc’s ignition.
    ‘Whoa there, big boy,’ she said, folding herself into the passenger seat, showing more tanned cleavage and muscled thigh than could be considered decent.
    Gilchrist snapped into Drive, floored the accelerator.
    The Merc twitched as it powered forward.
    ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’ She removed the Marlboro from her handbag.
    Gilchrist snatched the packet from her, stuffed it