Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

or calling for an ambulance. How could he now prove Fairclough had done it? Which left him puzzling over his decision to confront him. What had he expected Fairclough to do? Confess?
    Gilchrist moved closer. Inches separated them. The stench of bad gums had him holding his breath. ‘Gilchrist,’ he repeated. ‘You know the name because you’ve never forgotten. I can see it in your eyes.’
    Fairclough’s throat bobbed. ‘What the fuck’re you on about?’
    ‘Jack Gilchrist was the name of the man you killed. He was almost eighteen when you ran him over, and drove off to leave him dying in the gutter.’
    ‘Why don’t you go play on the railway?’ Fairclough stepped back to close the door.
    ‘I’ve spoken to Linda.’
    Fairclough’s eyes flared for a moment, then disappeared as the door slammed shut.
    Gilchrist stood on the step for a full minute, his breath fogging the cold air. For one absurd moment he toyed with the idea of kicking the door down and dragging Fairclough to the local police station in handcuffs. Instead, he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and retraced his steps to his Merc. He made a point of not looking back, even though he knew Fairclough would be following his retreat from behind dirt-laden windows. By the time he switched on the ignition, an idea had come to him. He caught Stan on his mobile, and from the background chatter guessed he was having a pint.
    ‘Let me guess,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The Central?’
    ‘Le Provençal.’
    It was on College Street, almost next door to the Central, a basement restaurant that Stan often used to obtain information from less honest locals.
    ‘Anyone I know?’ Stan’s rushing breath told Gilchrist that he was bustling from the restaurant for some privacy.
    ‘Wee Jimmy,’ Stan said at length.
    Wee Jimmy Carslaw. Five-foot nothing and fingers as quick as a snake strike. In and out of your pocket with a touch as light as the wind. Many an innocent tourist had lost more than a few bob to Jimmy’s fingers. ‘What’s he been up to?’ Gilchrist asked.
    ‘Just helping out, boss. Keeping him honest.’
    Gilchrist accelerated on to the M8. The Merc eased into fast-flowing traffic with barely a murmur. ‘I need you to chase something down for me, Stan.’
    ‘Shoot, boss.’
    ‘That MGB we talked about earlier,’ he said. ‘Can you get Nance to pay the last-known owner a visit as soon as she can?’
    ‘What’s the rush?’ Stan asked.
    What could he tell him? That he had an idea, a passing thought? That this is the car that killed my brother, and I was wondering, if it hadn’t been scrapped, was any of his DNA still on it? As he played it through his mind, he realized he was not only clawing at straws, he was making them up.
    ‘It’s a long shot, Stan. I don’t even know if the car’s still around.’
    ‘Leave it with me, boss.’
    Gilchrist was about to hang up when Stan said, ‘Got a facial on the skeleton.’
    True to her word, Dr Heather Black had given Gilchrist’s request top priority.
    ‘Any matches?’ he asked.
    ‘Not yet. It’s just come in. We’re working on it. But I’ll tell you what, boss. Someone must know her.’
    ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘She’s a beauty. Can’t imagine her not having a string of boyfriends.’
    Gilchrist pondered Stan’s words. Maybe that had been the girl’s downfall. Maybe one of her boyfriends suspected she was playing the field, and jealousy took hold. Maybe she had tried to break up their relationship and a violent argument followed. Or maybe she had been sexually assaulted and was murdered trying to defend herself.
    He mulled those thoughts in his mind, trying to work a different angle. But no matter how he worked it, he knew the key to identifying the young woman was to put the computer image on the national news. Someone might recognize her.
    If so, that could break the case wide open.
    ‘Get it over to Conway at the Beeb,’ he ordered, ‘and ask her to put it out on all news channels this afternoon.’

CHAPTER 13
     
    Gilchrist felt his breath catch.
    Stan had been correct. The murdered woman had indeed been beautiful.
    He gripped the back of the chair, held on tight, tried to still the thick pounding in his chest as he stared hard at the screen.
    Dr Heather Black had created a remarkable likeness, but the eyes were not quite right. Gilchrist remembered them being larger, and a darker shade of blue than the sky blue Dr Black had coloured them. Her hair, too, was wrong.