Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

that. But first shoot off some more, Joe. Make sure we’ve got it covered from all angles.’
    Gilchrist slipped from the room.
    In College Street, the air felt cold and damp, the wind fresh and lively. He breathed it in, felt its chill bring life back into his lungs. He walked towards Market Street and turned right. He had no destination in mind, no idea where he was walking to, knowing only that he was walking away from something, some terrible event in the past.
    Perhaps the scene of his brother’s murderous crime.

CHAPTER 16
     
    Gilchrist was nearing the arches of the West Port when his fingers found Nance’s note.
    He unfolded it. At the top, in her neat printing, was
MGB
, and beneath,
John Betson
, followed by an address in Edinburgh, a phone number and a note that John Betson was the last recorded owner of the MGB GT that Fairclough had once owned.
    The call to Betson put Gilchrist through on the first ring. Without introducing himself, he said, ‘I understand you own an MGB GT.’ Betson paused long enough to make Gilchrist think he had lost the call. ‘Do you still have it?’ he tried.
    ‘You
are
joking, right?’
    Gilchrist frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’
    ‘Some other punter called me first thing this morning and asked if I still had the GT. I mean, I’ve had it for over twenty years, and in the same day I get two calls about it. Is that crazy, or what?’
    Excitement surged through Gilchrist. Had his surprise visit to Fairclough flushed him out? Was he now too late? ‘Have you sold it?’ he asked.
    ‘No. And that’s another funny thing,’ Betson said. ‘We talked money, but he sounded disinterested. Like he didn’t want to buy.’
    ‘Did you get his name?’
    ‘He hung up before I could ask.’
    It had to have been Fairclough, and for a moment he thought of telling Betson that he was with Fife Constabulary. But Betson seemed so loose and ready with his words that he worried that doing so might clamp him up. Instead, he said, ‘Has anyone come round to have a look at it?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve just got back.’
    A thought hit him. ‘Is it still there? The car, I mean. It’s not been stolen—’
    ‘Not a chance,’ Betson said. ‘It’s under six feet of rubbish in the garage. Tell you what, though, I could do with selling it at the moment. It’s up on blocks, and the engine’s filled with oil, so it should be spotless. Are you interested?’
    It occurred to Gilchrist that Fairclough might already be on his way over with a tow truck and a pile of cash that Betson could not resist. That could be Fairclough’s style. Which also meant that, after all these years, time might now be running out. ‘I might be,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Can I see it?’
    ‘Sure. But it’s buried in my garage.’
    Which should keep it safe and secure for a while longer. ‘Did the man who called earlier say anything that seemed odd? Did he say how he knew you had the car?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did he just ask if you had it, then hang up?’
    ‘He asked if it was roadworthy, and I told him it was in my garage.’
    ‘Then he hung up?’
    Betson paused, then said, ‘You know, come to think of it, he did ask one question I thought was odd.’
    Gilchrist pressed the phone hard against his ear.
    ‘He asked if I’d stripped the front end or changed the headlights.’
    The headlights?
‘Both of them?’
    ‘I assume that’s what he meant, yes.’
    Gilchrist stared off to the distance, to a bank of clouds as dark as his mood. An image of a body being thrown over a car like a stringless marionette hit his mind, the same image he had dreamed ever since entered brother’s death – always the same – Jack’s body tumbling and hitting the ground, to be left bleeding and dying.
    And the only damage to the car, a broken headlight. Or was it?
    ‘And had you?’ he asked.
    ‘No. There’s nothing wrong with the headlights. I’ve done nothing to the car since I bought it, except keep it clean and in storage. And when I told him that, he swore, which I thought was odd.’
    ‘At you?’
    ‘No. Just a
fuck
, then click.’
    Why had Fairclough asked if the headlights had been changed or the front end stripped? He would have repaired the broken headlights himself before selling the car on. But had the front end been damaged in the accident as well?
    All of a sudden, he saw other possibilities.
    ‘What year is the car?’
    ‘Sixty-eight,’ said Betson. ‘And in great nick,’ he added, and launched