Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

walls.
    ‘Christ knows how we’d manage to live if she couldn’t dump her mess here,’ Betson said. He kicked something out of the way, then bent down. ‘Grab an end, will you?’
    Gilchrist obliged, conscious of a car door shutting in the lane outside. ‘Neighbours?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Someone’s in the lane.’
    ‘It gets quite busy from time to time.’ Betson steadied himself. ‘When I say three, pull it up and over. OK? One, two, three and up . . .’
    Gilchrist pulled the tarpaulin back and folded it over the front windscreen of a gleaming sports car. The smell of polish engulfed him.
    ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Betson beamed down at his car, fingers caressing the shining metal. ‘God, I should take her out next summer.’
    ‘Thought you wanted to sell it.’
    ‘I do and I don’t,’ Betson said. ‘I’m prepared to let her go for the right price. But other than that, I’m not interested.’
    ‘And the right price is?’
    ‘That’s for you to decide. I have a number in mind, but I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.’
    Gilchrist leaned down to inspect the front headlights. Condensation dotted the inside of the glass like beads of perspiration. ‘The paintwork looks new,’ he said.
    ‘Got her resprayed not long after I bought her.’
    Something slumped in Gilchrist’s stomach. He had expected that, had known it was more than likely. Repainting would have destroyed any evidence of his brother’s hit-and-run. Still, it was amazing that the car was around after all this time. And in such condition. He ran a finger around the rim of the headlights, touched the orange indicator light. The chrome bumper shone like a metal mirror. The car looked showroom-new.
    ‘The person who called earlier,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Would you have any objection if I pulled your phone records to find his number?’
    Betson frowned at Gilchrist. ‘What do you mean?’
    Gilchrist explained that he was with Fife Constabulary investigating a cold case, but did not give further details. ‘And I’d like to impound your car,’ he added.
    ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
    ‘We’ll take care of it. Do what we have to do with it, and return it to you. You won’t even have noticed it missing.’
    ‘I’m not sure I like that idea,’ Betson said.
    Gilchrist thought he caught a faint whiff of petrol. ‘I’d like to—’
    The first bottle missed Betson’s face by inches, smashed against the back wall with a hot roar. Gilchrist had time only to shield his face with his arm as flames billowed around him. He heard Betson scream to the floor as flames as fluid as liquid swallowed him, then caught the dull thud of another bottle as it landed unbroken on the roof of the car. Entangled in the picture frames, its lighted rag set off the packing tissue and threatened to flare down the neck of the bottle. Through the orange glare and roiling smoke, Gilchrist caught the silhouette of someone closing the door.
    He backed from the heat of the flames, picked up the bottle on the roof, prayed it would not explode in his hands and threw it out. Too late, it bounced off the closing door and landed on the concrete floor with an eye-blinding flash.
    The door slammed shut.
    Gilchrist turned to Betson, but already the smoke had created a black fog through which he could see nothing. His eyes stung, his throat burned, and as he fell to his knees he heard the unmistakable click of a padlock being snapped shut.
    The speed with which the contents of the garage ignited almost stopped his heart.
    Flames licked the roofing. Along one wall they jumped from box to box. Toys and gifts stored for years in the dry warmth of the garage were more efficient than fuel-soaked kindling. Comics roared to life, pages curling in the heat. Cardboard boxes squirmed and blackened. Plastic toys flared and melted.
    No time to think. Only to act.
    Back on his feet, he tried to make a run for the door, but the heat from the second bottle was too great. He backed off, felt his face burn. He kneeled and grabbed the tarpaulin.
    Shouting with all his strength, he peeled the tarpaulin back, running it up and over the roof of the car, tilting picture frames and burning paper. The tarp fell from the car like billowing sacking and folded over the flames of the second Molotov cocktail.
    Something popped – the single lightbulb – and the garage went dull for a moment, to be replaced with a hellish landscape of flickering black and orange. Gilchrist kicked the door.