Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

will
pay
to read about your uncanny ability to solve difficult cases.’
    Gilchrist almost laughed. ‘I really don’t think so.’
    ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Detective Chief Inspector. I’m good at what I do. One of the best. And so are you. You’re a bestseller just waiting to be sold, and you don’t even know it.’
    Gilchrist took one long sip then pushed his half-finished pint away. ‘Listen, Ms Belli. I’m flattered. Truly I am. But I’m not interested. It was nice meeting you.’ He turned from the bar. ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’
    ‘Gotcha, Andy.’
    ‘Before you go.’
    Gilchrist stopped, but knew he should have kept walking.
    ‘Grant me exclusive permission to write about you and your cases, and you get a percentage of the royalties. And we’re not talking paltry sums here.’ She shook her head. Her face seemed to harden. ‘No permission, no percentage.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’
    Gilchrist made to push past.
    ‘Wait.’ She slipped her hand into her bag and took out a business card. When she realized he was not going to take it she pushed it into his shirt pocket. ‘My mobile’s on twenty-four seven.’
    Outside, the temperature had dropped close to freezing. Stars glittered in a cloudless sky, giving prelude to a bitter night. Gilchrist removed Gina Belli’s card from his shirt pocket, was about to rip it up, when something stopped him.
    Instead, he slipped it into his wallet and kept walking.
     
    She caught up with him as he stepped into Market Street, and surprised him by slipping her arm through his.
    ‘Do you mind?’ she asked. ‘It’s cold.’
    He resisted pulling free, and said, ‘Well, in that case . . .’
    He said nothing as they strolled across the cobbled street.
    ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
    ‘Nowhere.’
    ‘Never been there.’
    As they neared PM’s, the vinegary smell of fish and chips helped lift the misery of his day and reminded him he had missed lunch. ‘How about a fish supper?’ he asked her.
    ‘What about my figure?’
    ‘It looks fine to me.’
    ‘You should see it naked.’ She chuckled, her voice rasping like a smoker’s cough. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she went on, tightening her grip. ‘Skip the fish and chips and take me to a favourite pub of yours, and I’ll buy the rounds.’
    It sounded more like a command than a request, but Gilchrist, to his surprise, heard himself say, ‘Just the one, then.’
    ‘The one what?’ she asked, eyes glinting with mischief. Then she tugged at his arm as if in reprimand. ‘I see I’m going to have to watch what I say to you. You take everything so literally.’
    ‘A fault of mine,’ he said.
    ‘One of many, I’m sure.’
    Like a long-standing couple, they entered Union Street arm in arm. The air felt cold and damp on his throat, and he adjusted his scarf. Her fragrance, a perfume he knew he had smelled before, but could not place, teased with his senses. Her grip felt firm, not too tight, as if she feared that giving him any slack would let him flee. Their breath puffed hard in the night air, and they fell into easy step with each other, her thigh bumping against his.
    ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ she asked.
    What could he tell her? That he had let Maureen and Jack down by not attending the wake? That he should have called to explain? That he regretted the bitter end to his marriage with Gail? That the last time he visited her, they had argued? He shrugged. ‘Thought you were a psychic.’
    She tugged his arm as if in annoyance, then carried on in silence.
    They reached the Dunvegan Hotel as light rain started to fall. Gina brushed a bejewelled hand through her hair as she stepped into the bar. If Gilchrist had not known better, he would have sworn the room stilled for an instant. Gina looked in her element, like a star in the limelight toying with the cameras. She slipped off her coat, then her jacket, to reveal a matching waistcoat – no blouse – that exposed lean arms and tight muscle tone.
    ‘I’m going to have a Glenfiddich,’ she said. ‘On the rocks. Want one?’
    ‘It’s Glenfiddich with an ick, not an itch.’
    ‘There’s that perfectionism again. So you’ll join me?’
    Gilchrist seldom drank whisky, but said, ‘Why not?’
    ‘Two double Glenfiddichs,’ she said to the barman. ‘On the rocks.’
    While Gina studied the gantry, Gilchrist studied the lounge. He recognized a number of regulars, nodding to them