Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

blistered in others. Up on the ramp, the car looked more fire-damaged, the classic style more dated.
    Shuggie removed a crumpled sheet of oil-stained paper from his pocket – Gilchrist’s handwritten instructions. ‘So what kind of stuff are we looking for?’ Shuggie asked him. ‘Something about the front panel and the nearside headlight?’
    ‘I believe this car was involved in a fatal hit-and-run accident in the late sixties,’ he began. ‘I need you to find something that might give credence to that theory.’
    Shuggie snorted. ‘Like what? A body part stuck to the front grille?’
    ‘The victim was someone I knew.’
    Shuggie looked at Gilchrist as if waiting for the punchline.
    ‘My brother,’ Gilchrist said.
    Shuggie glared at the car. ‘Nearside headlight, you say?’
    ‘The headlights might have been replaced, and I suspect some damage to the front panel’s been repaired. But since the accident, it’s only had the one paint job.’
    Shuggie ran a hand as big as a bear’s paw over the metal, scratched one of the bubbles with a fingernail as black and thick as a claw. ‘Cheap job, too,’ he said, then looked back at Gilchrist. ‘You got the accident report?’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Not on me. My brother was struck down crossing the road. His body was found straddling the pavement.’
    ‘How did he die?’
    ‘Bled to death. The femoral artery, that’s the one in his leg,’ he added, ‘was sliced open.’
    ‘Is that above or below the knee?’
    ‘Above.’
    Shuggie palmed the front of the car. ‘Any broken bones? Crushed knees? That sort of stuff?’
    Gilchrist recalled the details. Multiple breaks in the lower and upper right leg. Meniscus cartilage shattered. Bones poking through skin. Jack had not died immediately, but lain on the side of the road, probably unable to move. Assuming he had been conscious, the pain from his shattered bones would have had him clutching his leg. By the time he realized his artery was cut, the loss of blood would have had him in shock. With the drop in blood pressure he would most likely have passed out in less than a minute, been dead in two.
    ‘His right leg was a mess,’ Gilchrist said.
    ‘So he was walking on to the road, no off it.’
    ‘It looks that way.’
    ‘Back then,’ Shuggie continued, ‘these chrome bumpers and nifty-looking sidelights and stuff was as good as being hit with an axe. You don’t see them any more. Against the law. I remember seeing a Jaguar mascot once, you know, the one with the leaping cat on the bonnet? Well, this was covered in blood and stuff. The guy it hit went flying over the bonnet, but no before the mascot ripped a hole in his stomach. Guts and stuff everywhere.’
    Gilchrist eyed the radio. It was difficult to think with all the noise. But he did know one thing. There had been no
guts and stuff
in Jack’s accident. A bone splinter that sliced the femoral artery had been his fatal injury.
    ‘I like this one,’ Shuggie said, and turned the radio up an impossible notch.
    ‘What is it?’ Gilchrist shouted.
    ‘Green Day.’
    ‘I meant, the radio.’
    Shuggie gave a friendly grimace. ‘Brother’s into electronics and stuff. Jake put in new speakers. Small as shite and stuff. You should hear it at full blast.’
    Gilchrist shouted, ‘It can go louder?’
    Shuggie gave a proud grin that revealed broken teeth. ‘It’s idling, man. Just ticking over.’
    Gilchrist choked back a cough. ‘How long do you think it’ll take?’
    ‘If I concentrate on the front panels, a couple of days, maybe less, maybe more. Depends on what kind of stuff I find.’ He scratched his beard with a grimy finger. ‘Want me to strip it down all the way?’ He seemed pleased with his question.
    Gilchrist felt a clammy sweat grip the nape of his neck, whether from his fever or the thought of presenting Greaves with the bill, he could not say. Or maybe from the thought of uncovering proof of the hit-and-run. ‘Concentrate on the front end,’ he said. ‘If you find something, let me know, and I’ll tell you if I want you to dig deeper.’
    Shuggie nodded, disappointed.
    As Gilchrist walked from the garage, he hawked up a lump of black phlegm and spat it into thick grass at the base of a stone wall. In the car, he wiped his face of sweat and tried to ignore a shiver that flushed down his arms.
    Back in town, he popped into Boots on Market Street for a box of Ibuprofen. He took two, had to work up spittle to swallow them