Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

months
. But Gilchrist suspected differently. Jack was a freelance artist, someone who was perceived to thrive on drug-induced creativity and who mixed in a circle of friends and associates with access to drugs, among other things. Had they sold drugs to Jack? Did any of them know his father was a detective? Would that have mattered?
    He struggled to mask the desperation in his voice. ‘What’s he taking?’
    ‘MDMA.’
    Ecstasy
. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Where does he get it?’
    ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’
    ‘You did the right thing telling me.’ He tried a different tack and concentrated on keeping his voice gentle. ‘Did you know Jack had taken drugs before?’
    ‘Just dabbled. Nothing hard.’
    ‘But not any more?’
    ‘I think he’s becoming addicted.’
    Gilchrist gritted his teeth, stared off to the horizon. This was his son she was talking about, his little boy, the same child who cried when a crab gripped him by the toe on the East Sands and who almost died from a combination of measles and pneumonia that had him and Gail taking turns during the night to dab the sweat from his swollen face and the gunk from his welded eyes. How could that boy now be—
    ‘Don’t tell him we’ve spoken,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’
    ‘I
will
need to talk to him.’
    ‘I know you will. But please . . . ?’
    Gilchrist promised to be discreet, thanked her and hung up.
    Well, there he had it. His fears realized. Jack
back
on drugs. Despite his repeated denials. He thought of calling right away, then decided not to. He needed to reason with Jack, not crash over him like a stampeding bull. Besides, even noon could be an early rise for Jack.
    He slipped his mobile into his pocket and set off into the village.
    He found her house in Routine Row without difficulty – no nameplate, just a number pinned to the door frame in bold brass plates. A brass door-knocker invited him to disturb the early-morning quietness.
    He looked at his watch. Not yet eight.
    He stepped into the middle of the narrow street. The curtains were still drawn on the upstairs dormer windows. Blinds shielded the downstairs from passers-by. The houses either side had drawn curtains, too, so he decided to give her another ten minutes.
    He found a mobile cafe near the harbour, ordered a coffee and a bacon sandwich.
    The coffee warmed his hands, and the sandwich dripped bacon fat as he walked along the pier. Seagulls performed hovering aerobatics in readiness of an easy meal, but Gilchrist was too hungry to consider sharing. Down to the crust, on impulse he tossed the remains into the water, only to see it snatched mid-air by a heron gull that swooped inches from the stone wall and wheeled away, others hard and loud on its tail. With the gulls no longer interested in him, he finished his coffee in solitude.
    By the time he returned it was 8.27.
    The blinds were still closed, but the house next door had curtains opened that gave a view through cleaned windows to a tidy garden that boasted shorn bushes.
    He gripped the knocker, gave two hard raps and back-stepped on to the street.
    He waited until his watch read 8.30 before giving another two raps, hard enough for the next-door neighbour to stick her head out.
    ‘Rabbie’s no here,’ she shouted out to him.
    ‘I’m looking for Linda Melrose.’
    ‘That’s right. Rabbie’s no here.’
    Gilchrist failed to follow the logic. ‘Does Linda Melrose not live here?’
    ‘Aye. But Rabbie’s no here.’
    ‘Forgive me, but who’s Rabbie?’
    ‘Her brother.’
    Gilchrist waited.
    ‘Linda cannae get up by herself. Rabbie helps her. Come hail or shine.’
    Gilchrist glanced at his watch. ‘When will Rabbie get here?’
    ‘He’s usually here afore nine. Sometimes after. So there’s nae need to waken up the whole street. Just bide your time and he’ll turn up soon enough.’
    She was about to return indoors when Gilchrist said, ‘Do you know where Rabbie lives? Or where I can find him?’
    ‘You’re right impatient, so you are.’
    ‘It’s important,’ he said.
    She glared at him. ‘He walks his dog along the harbour. A muckle Alsatian.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Wait ’til you see him before you cast any thanks.’ And with that, the door closed.
    Back at the cafe, Gilchrist ordered another coffee. ‘I’m looking for Rabbie,’ he said. ‘He usually walks his Alsatian.’
    ‘Tam.’
    ‘Tam?’
    ‘Rabbie’s Alsatian.’
    ‘Oh, right.