Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

stick with the facts, shall we?’
    Tosh shifted in his seat, eyes blazing. If ever there was a portal to the soul, Tosh’s eyes were it. He pressed forward. ‘Here’s how we see it,’ Tosh growled. ‘The lighter’s your brother’s. Fact one. The tooth’s your brother’s. Fact two. Both were found on the belongings of a dead woman. Kelly Roberts, to be exact. Fact three. A woman your brother was screwing when she died. Fact four. And the night Kelly was killed, your brother was involved in a fight outside the Keys. Fact five.’
    Gilchrist almost jolted. ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘Did you not know that, Andy?’ Randall again.
    ‘No.’ Not strictly correct.
    Tosh pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘So that puts—’
    ‘I asked, who told you that?’
    Tosh screeched his chair away from the table and stood. He raked his hair, then tried a smile. ‘No one told us. It’s in the files. Your brother had a record. And don’t try to tell us you didn’t know
that.’
    Record
might be the correct word, but being charged for underage drinking was hardly a serious offence. The fact that Jack had been attacked by two older youths as he was leaving the Keys, and in the act of defending himself knocked one of them unconscious and put the other in hospital, was something Gilchrist had always admired as a youngster. But Jack had been charged with assault and jailed for the night. In court the following day, the charges were dropped, thanks to three eyewitnesses.
    Gilchrist returned Tosh’s riveting glare, seeing in his pig eyes an anger verging on the manic. ‘Which means what, exactly?’ he asked.
    ‘That your brother’s fingerprints are all over this case.’
    ‘Have you found any fingerprints?’
    Randall raised his hand to stop Tosh from launching himself. ‘Let’s stay focused, shall we?’ He pulled himself closer to the table. ‘Andy, I have to ask you. Are you able to tell us why you withheld evidence regarding the cigarette lighter?’
    ‘What evidence?’
    ‘That it belonged to your brother.’
    ‘You don’t know that.’
    Randall sat back, seemingly surprised by Gilchrist’s answer. But the truth of the matter, whether they liked it or not, was that the only person who could confirm the lighter belonged to his brother was himself. Which had him cursing under his breath that he had told Gina Belli.
    ‘It has three nicks,’ Tosh said. ‘You mentioned that to Mackie.’
    ‘And your point is?’
    Randall stared at him, dead-eyed, and Gilchrist made a mental note to keep an eye on the man. Too smart by far. Cool and calculating.
    ‘Run through it for me,’ Randall said. ‘Your reasons for removing evidence on one count, and for withholding evidence on the second count.’
    ‘And if I don’t?’
    Randall’s ice-blue eyes never flickered. Here, thought Gilchrist, is a man who could look the Devil in the eye and not flinch. He thought of calling the interview to an end and asking for his solicitor. But what would that prove? Requesting a solicitor could send the wrong message.
    Randall placed both hands palms-down on the table, as if to show how harmless he was. ‘I’m with you on this, Andy. We both are. We’re on the same side. We don’t want to make accusations that could tarnish the Force’s reputation. We have enough problems with our image as it is. But you must see how it looks, Andy. The body of a young woman is found thirty-five years after she disappeared, and the brother of one of our own boys in blue, the SIO in charge, no less, was going out with her at the time she was murdered.’
    Randall paused, lifted both hands from the table in a gesture of helplessness. ‘And to make matters worse, this SIO removes an important piece of evidence, and withholds further evidence, both of which are critical to the case. Which puts us in a bit of a dilemma, Andy.’ Randall tried a smile of sympathy, but he was fooling no one. ‘What we’re hoping for is that you can help us explain away this . . . this damning evidence, if you’ll pardon the expression.’
    Gilchrist sat motionless. He had heard some pretty persuasive arguments before, but never with such self-serving guile. If Randall was a fox in a henhouse, he would have convinced the chickens he was laying their eggs for them.
    ‘So, Andy. Can you help us? Can you tell us why you removed your brother’s lighter?’
    ‘Who said the lighter was my brother’s?’
    ‘Isn’t it?’
    ‘How would I know?’
    ‘If it