Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

he asked.
    ‘Until the end of my course. Then that was that. Back to Wales to find a job and get back together with my old boyfriend.’
    ‘Thomas?’
    ‘God, no. I never met Rhys, God rest his soul, until I was well into my thirties. I’m afraid the impulsiveness of youth and looking at the world through beer goggles sent most of them packing.’
    ‘What about Kelly’s mail?’ he asked. ‘Bank statements, bills, the usual stuff. What did you do with them?’
    ‘Ripped them up, mostly.’
    ‘Did you not forward any to her address in the States?’
    ‘Now that you mention it,’ she said, ‘I do remember sending something back. Just the once. A cheque, I think.’
    ‘Who from?’
    ‘How would I know? I didn’t open it.’
    ‘Was there no return address?’
    ‘If there was, I never noticed. And if I noticed, I can’t remember.’
    Gilchrist made a note to check the boxes in Mrs Roberts’ attic. ‘If anything else comes to mind,’ he said, ‘please give me a call.’ He waited while she rummaged for a pen, then he recited his mobile number and hung up.
    Back at his desk, he read through his scribbled notes on Rita, trying to find something that might jump-start his mind, then flicked through those on Kelly’s mother. One word leaped from the page.
    Mexico, circled in black pen.
    Why Mexico?
    In the late sixties, Mexico was not the tourist haven it is now. Back then, it would have been barely ruined by greed-driven developers; a sun-scorched land from which simple people eked out a meagre living, with crystal-clear seas from which fishermen fed their families. Like Spain’s Costa del Sol in the fifties, perhaps.
    So, why Mexico?
    In the short time Jack had known Kelly, Gilchrist could not once recall him uttering a single word about Mexico. All of Jack’s enthusiasm had been directed towards the States.
    Once I get a job, Andy, you can come and visit us. I’ll fly you over. We’ll have picnics on the beach, barbecued steaks as big as your arm and shrimp as big as lobsters. We’ll watch the sun go down on a warm sea, smoke cigarettes and drink beer. You’ll get a tan, and grow muscles. I’ll get you fit. Every morning we’ll run along the beach to a rising sun in a clear blue sky
.
    Which was what Jack and Kelly used to do – run along the West Sands, sans sun. No matter how he tried, Gilchrist could not conjure up an image of Jack and Kelly jogging on the beaches in Mexico.
    But Kelly’s parents had received a postcard from Mexico.
    Which Kelly had not sent. Of that, Gilchrist was certain.
    So who had?
    If he could answer that question, Gilchrist knew he had found her killer.

CHAPTER 15
     
    Memories came back at him as he stepped into the living room, like family portraits being unveiled one at a time. The fireplace was still there, although the mantelpiece had since been removed. In its place, a wooden shelf with scalloped edges buckled from the weight of books and ornaments that threatened to slip from its surface. A series of black-and-white photographs covered woodchip walls that he recalled being as bare as the West Sands.
    He crossed the floor to a rear window that overlooked the back garden. The boundary walls seemed higher than he remembered. The gabled outline of a building that once stood in the corner marked its stonework like a martyr’s memorial. A concrete slab that used to be the floor of an old wash-house lay like a flattened headstone beneath him. Weeds threatened the base of the boundary walls and crept through the early winter grass.
    ‘When did you say you lived here?’
    Gilchrist turned from the window to face Donnie, the owner, an aged gentleman with flyaway hair as wild as Einstein’s, and a strip of a moustache that perched above his lip.
    ‘I didn’t,’ Gilchrist said. ‘My brother did, in the late sixties.’
    Donnie nodded. ‘What did you say the name was?’
    ‘Jack Gilchrist. He shared the flat with Rita Sanderson and an American girl called Kelly.’
    ‘Names mean nothing to me now.’
    ‘Do you remember anything about them? Anything at all?’
    ‘That’s too far back for me to remember,’ Donnie said. ‘But I suppose I could check my records.’
    ‘Records?’
    ‘I used to keep the names and home addresses of every student who rented the place. It started out as a bit of fun,’ he added. ‘But I stopped about ten years ago. I felt like a dirty old man asking all these young students to sign my book.’ He gave out a chuckle that