Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

not seen before. ‘Phone book for the gentleman at the bar.’ As he eased a fresh pint from the tap, Fast Eddy said, ‘You look a bit out of sorts, Andy. Everything all right?’
    ‘Same old same old.’
    ‘Tell me about it. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing in here, pulling pint after pint. Nothing but a shopkeeper is what I am. And the shite I have to take from some customers? One of these days I’m going to nail one of the pricks to the wall. Thanks, sweetheart,’ he said, handing over the phone book. ‘I don’t believe you’ve met Andy,’ he said. ‘Andy, this is Elspeth. She’s just joined our happy little outfit.’
    Elspeth wiped her hand on a bar towel and held it out to Gilchrist.
    ‘Pleased to meet you, Andy.’
    Andy took her hand. ‘And you, too. Haven’t we met before?’ he asked her.
    ‘Can’t think where.’
    ‘Watch Andy’s patter, love. He’s a charmer, that’s for sure.’
    ‘I’m only here for the beer.’ Gilchrist opened the phone book and within thirty seconds had the number of the travel agency. Five minutes later, he was booked on a Continental flight from Glasgow to Newark the following day, connecting with Continental Express to Albany, New York. ‘Going on holiday?’ Fast Eddy asked.
    ‘Not quite.’
    ‘Haven’t seen much of that Gina Belli woman for the last day or so. One week she’s in here every minute of every day, it seems like, and the next, poof, she’s gone from sight. Bit of a looker, I’d say.’
    ‘Not my type,’ Gilchrist offered.
    ‘But you’d give her one. Right?’
    Gilchrist lost his answer in a mouthful of beer. He was in no mood for Eddy’s sexual banter. Since his divorce, he could count on four fingers the number of women he had been to bed with. Not promiscuous by any stretch of the imagination, but he wondered if it had been his love for Gail, or his love of his work, that had kept him faithful. He tried to recall the last time he and Gail had laughed together, but the image failed. Gail was gone, and he was suspended once again, only one step away from losing it all.
    He gripped his pint, took a sip. If he was off the official case, then that would give him the rest of the day to take care of the other one. He pulled out his mobile.
    ‘Anything new on Fairclough?’ he asked.
    ‘We’re still looking, boss.’
    ‘If Betson dies on us,’ he said, ‘we’re looking at murder.’
    ‘We think he might be in Rothesay.’
    Rothesay?
‘What’s there?’
    ‘That’s where his secretary comes from.’
    ‘Keep going.’
    ‘Fairclough owes one of his subcontractors close to a hundred grand, and this guy’s been calling every day for the last six months, threatening to take legal action if he doesn’t cough up. He also knows Fairclough’s been boinking his secretary for years, and when neither of them turned up yesterday morning, he flipped.’
    ‘They could have gone anywhere,’ Gilchrist tried.
    ‘Not a chance, boss. Apparently it’s where they go. They’ve done it before.’
    Still a long shot, but Stan’s positive manner had him struggling to maintain his composure. He managed to make Stan promise to call the moment he heard anything.
    He closed his mobile, Fairclough once again in his sights.
     
    The drive to SK Motors took fifteen minutes.
    The garage was a converted barn that pulsed to the beat of music. Gilchrist located the culprit, a black box of a radio from the sixties that seemed to defy the laws of electronics with the power of its speakers. Shuggie gave a snarl for a smile, rubbed his hands clean with a filthy rag and shook Gilchrist’s outstretched hand. Gilchrist tried to say it was good to see him again, but he could not hear his own voice.
    The MGB was already up on a ramp raised to shoulder height.
    ‘What’s it looking like?’ Gilchrist shouted.
    ‘It might look as if it’s in good nick,’ Shuggie replied. ‘But it’s a cheap rebuild. All fur coat and nae knickers.’
    ‘How can you tell?’ It was like trying to talk in a disco.
    Shuggie lifted a hammer out of his toolbox, stuck his head under the ramp and hit the underside of the car with a blow that should have shattered the chassis. Bits of dirt fell to the floor. Shuggie picked some up and showed it to Gilchrist. ‘Rust,’ he said. ‘Big no-no when it comes to classics.’ He slapped the side of the car. ‘Heap of shite’s nothing but a rust bucket.’
    Gilchrist eyed the paintwork, gleaming showroom-new in parts, black and