Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

talked for a few minutes more, but he sensed Rita had given him as much as she could. He thanked her and asked her to call if she remembered anything else, to which she elicited a promise from him to keep in touch.
    He revisited his notes. The more he puzzled over them, the more distant the answer seemed. Sleep crept up on him, urging him to lay his head on his hands. His muscles ached from their recent abuse, and his right hand felt as if it was on fire. He flexed his fingers, expecting to see the seeping telltale signs of infection, but all his cuts looked clean.
    He fingered his cheek. It felt tender, nothing more than a graze from flesh on wood. His back hurt, and his spine seemed to have locked. He had to stretch upright, arms in the air, twisting at the waist, before he felt any comfort. He resisted the urge to have a Scotch nightcap, and limped off to his bedroom.
    As he drifted off, his last waking image was of a thin Mexican woman smiling up at him. And in that smile he thought he saw the reflection of her lover with the yellow teeth.

CHAPTER 18
     
    Gilchrist opened his eyes.
    Overhead, his Velux window glistened with rain. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but his body seemed not to work.
    He twisted his head, squinted one eye at his radio alarm. Seven forty-two.
    He ran his hand around the back of his neck, felt the dampness of sweat and worried that he was running a fever. Feet on the floor, up and over to the bathroom, his body racking with coughs that brought up phlegm as black as coal. He popped a couple of Ibuprofen and downed them with a handful of cold water.
    Showered and shaved, he dialled Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary and managed to get through to Betson’s ward. Betson had survived the night but was still in critical condition. Gilchrist thanked the nurse and was about to call Stan when his mobile rang.
    He recognized the North Street number.
    ‘You’re wanted at the office.’
    It took Gilchrist a full second to place the voice as Tosh’s, and one more for him to decide against hanging up. If Greaves was in any way involved, he had better be careful.
    ‘Wanted by whom?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh, listen to that. Wanted by
whom?’
A pause, then, ‘You’re wanted by me. DI Walter MacIntosh. That’s
whom
. And let’s make sure there’s no misunderstanding about what’s what. I couldn’t give a flying fuck how far up the ladder you think you are. You’d better get that smarmy arse of yours to the office pronto, or I swear I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.’
    ‘In your dreams, Tosh.’
    ‘Try nightmares, Gilchrist. I’m gonnie nail you this time.’
    The connection went dead.
    Nightmares? Gilchrist almost smiled.
    If he had only known.
     
    ‘This is Chief Inspector Jeffrey Randall,’ Tosh began.
    Gilchrist took Randall’s hand. The grip felt dry and firm.
    ‘Jeff’s from the Complaints and Discipline Department, and assisting me with our enquiries.’
    ‘Into what, exactly?’
    Tosh smiled. ‘We’re coming to that. But first I’d like to show you these.’
    Silent, Gilchrist watched Tosh remove a number of X-ray images from a large yellow envelope and slap them on to the table in front of him.
    Gilchrist stared at the images for a moment, before picking them up.
    Someone’s dental records. He read the name printed in felt-tip pen along the bottom.
    Not just any someone. His brother Jack’s.
    He slid them back to Tosh. ‘Where did you get these?’
    ‘Wrong question. Try
why?
’
    Gilchrist let his gaze shift to Randall, then back to Tosh, trying to play his best poker face. He would be damned if he was going to be forced to play Tosh’s game.
    Tosh pulled the X-rays to him. ‘Didn’t know your brother had a crown.’
    ‘He had two, actually.’
    Tosh nodded. ‘But I’m more interested in this,’ he said, stabbing a finger at the X-rays. ‘A missing tooth. Upper right.’ He squinted at the X-ray image. ‘And the date’s intriguing. Extracted on 19 February 1969.’
    ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
    ‘It’s five days before Hamish McLeod’s funeral.’
    Gilchrist tried to ignore the significance of that, pretend it was harmless.
    Tosh placed a plastic bag on the desk and slid it over to Gilchrist. ‘We found this on the woman’s clothing. It’s a tooth. Your dead brother Jack’s, to be exact. The one extracted on the nineteenth.’
    As feared, the date made sense. He felt his brow furrow. Without a DNA analysis, how could Tosh be