Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

Crail, God forbid. That thought had him gritting his teeth and his eyes glued to the road as the Merc zipped through sweeping bends like a greyhound after a hare. Out and past a minibus, and again for three cars that swept past him as if going the other way. He eyed the dash, caught his speed pushing ninety and eased back.
    He reached Crail without mishap, and crawled through the town at the speed limit. Back at his cottage, he powered up his laptop and connected to the Internet. He accessed MapQuest, typed in the address, requested directions from Saratoga Springs and printed out the result. He threw trousers, underpants, socks, shirts, sweaters and a waterproof jacket into a suitcase and his laptop, passport, Donnie’s records and copies of the case files into his computer case.
    In his bedroom, he opened his wardrobe and kneeled on the floor.
    He pulled out a shoe rack to reveal a wall safe. He entered the four-digit code – the months of Jack and Maureen’s birthdays – and pulled out a roll of one-hundred-pound notes. He unravelled twenty and returned the remainder to his stash. From his bedside drawer he removed another mobile phone.
    Five minutes later, he locked the cottage behind him.
    Hasty departures were good reasons not to have pets.
    He took the coastal road south, and called Maureen on his regular mobile.
    ‘Hi,’ he said.
    ‘Dad?’
    ‘The one and only.’
    ‘Long time,’ she said.
    He did not have it in his heart to remind her that she had hung up on his last call. ‘Listen, Mo,’ he said, ‘I’ll be out of town for a few days, heading down to the south coast. If anyone’s looking for me, that’s where I’ll be.’
    ‘OK.’
    He asked how she was holding up after Mum, what she was doing, if she was back at work, but received only grunts in response. After a few more efforts, he said, ‘Got to go, princess. Catch you later. Love you.’
    When he hung up, he swore under his breath. Her psychiatric reports confirmed she was making steady progress. Sometimes he found it difficult to convince himself of that. But she
was
alive, and she
was
recovering, no matter how slowly. He had to take that from it at least.
    He called Jack next.
    ‘Heh, Andy, how’s it going, man?’
    ‘Good,’ was all he offered. ‘How about you?’
    ‘Never been better.’
    ‘Why don’t I believe you?’
    ‘Because you’ve been a policeman too long and you don’t trust anything you hear any more.’
    It pleased him to see that simple things like speaking to his children could still pick him up. ‘If you say so,’ he replied. ‘Listen, Jack, I’m driving down to the south coast for a few days.’
    ‘Anywhere nice?’
    ‘Cornwall.’
    ‘Cool.’
    ‘Yes, it will be.’
    Jack laughed. ‘Heh, Andy, have a great time. And don’t forget to call.’
    ‘The phone works both ways, young man.’
    ‘I can never remember your number.’
    ‘Haven’t you got it saved yet?’
    ‘That’s too complicated, man. I prefer the simpler things in life. Beer and sex. But not in that order.’
    ‘Stick to the beer.’
    They exchanged promises and farewells, then hung up.
    He felt bad at having lied to both of them, but if Tosh called for information on their missing father, at least their stories would match.
    He drove straight to Glasgow International Airport and parked in the long stay car park. In the terminal building, he converted fifteen hundred pounds into US dollars, then slipped the lot into his computer case. An airport bus dropped him off at a hotel in Paisley, and he checked in under Harry Jamieson, a combination of his ex-wife’s husband’s name and her unmarried name, and paid for the room with cash. The whole place stank of cigarette smoke, which almost had him tapping his pockets for a packet.
    He resisted the urge to take a walk into town for a pint. The fewer people who saw him, the better. Instead, he had a shower. He eased back the plaster from his finger, pleased to see he was not going to lose his fingernail, and took care not to open his shoulder wound, which was healing nicely. Even his cough seemed to have cleared. But he took another couple of Ibuprofen to stave off any fever.
    Once showered and towelled, he called Edinburgh Royal Infirmary using the room phone, and was assured that Betson was expected to make a recovery. He fought off the urge to call Stan from his new mobile, or the room phone. Either number would appear on the office phone system. Instead, he slipped under the