Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

Betson’s, why not just leave the phone at home? It took a few seconds for Gilchrist’s logic to work out that Fairclough must have cancelled his phone contract before the arson attack, and that he had a different SIM card, one of a number that were more than likely untraceable.
    ‘Call the press, Stan,’ he said. ‘Tell them we want to question Fairclough about a hit-and-run accident in the sixties. And get them to run it beside a story about a garage fire.’
    ‘What garage fire, boss?’
    Gilchrist explained. ‘And tell them to lay it on thick,’ he added.
    ‘Will do, boss. One other thing. I’ve now got hold of old Donnie’s records. I’ve had a look at them, but nothing jumps out at me. I had to hand the originals over to Greaves, but I made you a copy.’
    ‘Why does Greaves want the originals?’
    ‘I’m not sure. But something’s going on, boss. They’ve got Tosh working with some high-flying chief inspector they pulled in from Tayside.’
    Gilchrist felt something skip in his chest. Pulling in a senior CI from another Force signalled the start of an internal investigation. Why had Chief Superintendent Greaves done that? And why had Greaves wanted old Donnie’s original records, which were all to do with Gilchrist’s case? Was he about to initiate an investigation into Gilchrist, or some other member of his team? Were these questions related, or were they simply coincidental? But just as troubling was the inclusion of Tosh.
    As if in tune with his thoughts, Stan said, ‘Have you ever wondered how Tosh has managed to keep his job? His record is next to useless.’
    ‘What are you not telling me?’
    ‘It’s only just been revealed that his wife’s uncle and McVicar are stepbrothers.’
    Gilchrist took a moment to digest Stan’s words. Assistant Chief Constable Archie McVicar. Tough but fair, a man who went by the rules. He would not bend any rules for nepotism, of that Gilchrist was certain. But if an internal investigation was about to start, Tosh was the last person Gilchrist wanted to be pitted against.
    ‘Where are you, Stan?’
    ‘At home.’
    ‘Do you have Donnie’s records with you?’
    ‘Where else, boss?’
    ‘I’ll pick them up in ten minutes.’
     
    Back at his cottage in Crail, Gilchrist took off his clothing in the bathroom. His leather jacket stank as if it had been smoked, and was torn and scratched beyond repair. Stripped naked, he was astonished to find that even his underpants smelled of smoke and soot. He threw the lot into the wash to soak overnight.
    He showered, and examined his new cuts and bruises.
    He had almost lost one fingernail on his right hand, and the palms of both hands were sliced and scarred with skelfs that he removed as best he could. A nasty cut on the back of his shoulder had him wincing with pain when he wiped the wound clean. He applied some antibiotic cream, but no bandage, deciding to let the air do its stuff, then a dollop or two on the fingernail, which he covered with a plaster. His right cheek blushed as if slapped, and felt tender. He rubbed some cream over it, figuring it might scab in a day or two. A limp that seemed to originate from somewhere deep in his left hip forced him to take his time.
    Was he too old for this any more?
    By the time he was seated at the dining table, stripped to the waist, with old Donnie’s records laid out in front of him, it was almost midnight. The list was hand-printed on the letterhead of an architectural firm that bore the same name as Donnie’s. He flicked through a total of eleven pages, all neatly printed and in chronological order, starting in June 1965 and ending in September 1985. He was not sure what he expected to find, but found himself searching for any name that jumped out at him, like Pennycuick or Grant. And it struck him how readily his mind was prepared to settle on these two.
    He came across neither, but found Kelly’s name and home address in the States after Jack’s, his own old home address. Kelly’s phone number, too, was the same as he’d already dialled. Next on the list was Rita Sanderson and an address in Wales, a convolution of consonants and vowels he could not pronounce. He recognized with a flicker of surprise the third person who had shared the flat with them that year. Lorena Cordoba.
    He had met her only a few times, once when Jack had brought all his flatmates home for New Year, several months before the fatal hit-and-run. He recalled her being a slight woman,