Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

her whisky on the bar with a force that should have cracked the glass. She pulled on her jacket, threw her coat over her arm. ‘It’s such a pity,’ she snarled. ‘I was getting to like you.’
    When she left, he ordered a pint of Eighty. But it did little to cheer him. Somehow, Gina’s departure felt like a replay of all his past relationships, as if reaffirming how he would spend the rest of his life; standing alone in a bar, with his pint. He took no more than a sip before he shoved the glass away.
    As he stood to leave, he caught the hotel owner’s eye. ‘Sheena,’ he said. ‘These four at the end of the bar. Anyone in mourning?’
    ‘Danny,’ she replied. ‘His sister was killed in a car accident last weekend.’
    Gilchrist pulled his scarf around his neck. He thought he caught a look of mourning in Danny’s eyes as he pushed through the crowd.

CHAPTER 3
     
    The following morning, Gilchrist arrived at the office just after 6.30, and almost bumped into DI Walter ‘Tosh’ MacIntosh as he pushed through the entrance doorway.
    ‘Only the wicked get in this early, Gilchrist. Kicked you out of bed, did she?’
    Gilchrist’s half-nod and snarl for a smile was all he could offer the man.
    ‘Some dog you picked up last night, was she?’ Tosh said, pushing past him and out into the morning chill. ‘That cock of yours is going to land you in trouble one day.’
    Gilchrist strode towards his office, Tosh’s laughter ringing in his ears.
    It took a good thirty minutes before he managed to push all thoughts of Tosh from his head and, after checking his email and catching up with the latest reports on his investigation, none of which told him anything new, he reached the Victoria Café by eight o’clock. He ordered only a pot of tea, and was lost in the
Courier
when Stan arrived. At six foot two Stan was one inch taller than Gilchrist. But where Gilchrist was slim-framed, Stan had shoulders wide enough to hang a suit on. He pulled up the chair opposite and flicked open his notebook.
    ‘Here’s what I’ve got,’ Stan said. ‘Some of the older folks remember McLeod’s funeral.’ He ran a finger down the page. ‘Most are in their seventies and eighties now, and those I spoke to offered a few more names until I have what I think is the full list. Well, at least of the locals. But I think that’s it. The McLeods had no children, no living relatives.’
    ‘No living relatives thirty-five years ago?’
    Stan blinked, then scribbled in his notebook. ‘That I don’t know yet.’
    ‘Keep going.’
    ‘As best I can tell, twenty-two people attended McLeod’s funeral. Of those, twelve are no longer around . . .’
    ‘Dead? Or left the area?’
    ‘Eleven dead. One in England. Nance is chasing up on that. Which leaves ten.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Most interesting was old Sammy Wilson, now eighty-six. His wife passed away last year at the age of ninety.’ Stan looked at his notes. ‘Sammy says he went to McLeod’s funeral so he would know where to go when he wanted to shite on someone’s grave.’
    ‘Charming.’
    ‘His own words. According to Sammy, Hamish McLeod was a miserable bastard who deliberately died so he wouldn’t have to cough up the fiver he owed him.’
    Gilchrist grimaced. He had seen fights start in bars over change that would not buy a book of matches.
    ‘Then there’s Tam and Liz Docherty,’ Stan said, studying his notes. ‘Could barely remember each other’s names, let alone what went on thirty-odd years ago. Then Bernie Bingham.’
    ‘Bingham? Is that the Bingham who—’
    ‘The very same. His wife, Betty, committed suicide not long after. But he looks like he’s lost all his marbles now. Just sat there staring into space.’
    Gilchrist felt something shift in his gut. The decomposed bodies of both Bingham children had been found in an abandoned well twenty-four years ago.
    ‘Jack and Doreen McGinlay,’ Stan went on. ‘They’re still alive. Barely. No luck there. Then we’re on to Dan Simpson. He was able to tell me he went with a couple of his drinking buddies – Billy McLeod, no relation to Hamish, and Jimmy Patterson – but they couldn’t tell me anything new.’
    ‘You said ten,’ said Gilchrist. ‘That was nine.’
    Stan closed his notebook. ‘Douglas Ewart was there.’
    For a fleeting moment, the name did not register. ‘Dougie?’ Gilchrist finally said.
    ‘The very same. He was a medical student at the university back then. Says his family knew the