Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

Kelly’s killer while clearing out her room. He read through her letter again, strangely disappointed that she made no mention of Jack to Kelly. Yet again, why should she? He eyed the date again, and realized Rita’s letter had been written one week before Jack’s death. Had Rita written to Kelly later and told her about Jack? Or had she returned to Wales never knowing about his fatal accident?
    He lifted the other letter and opened it. It was dated 28 February 1969, not long after Kelly’s murder. He searched for the signature at the end and felt a shiver course through him when he saw it had been written by Jack.
     
Dear Kelly:
How are you? Well, I hope. I was sorry to miss you on your last night in town, and had hoped that we could have parted on a happier note. I’m sorry for accusing you of things I know you never did, and I’m sorry for shouting and leaving the flat the way I did. I hope you can find some way to forgive me. I am thinking of flying out to the States in the summer, and would like it if we could meet up. If you think you can stand a sorry Scotsman visiting you, please write and let me know. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll understand that you don’t want to see me again. I’m sorry, Kelly, for arguing the way I did. I just wish I could have those last two days back so that I could make everything right again, the way it used to be. I miss you. I miss our runs along the beach. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss the smile in your face. I miss you
.
Yours,
Jack xxx
     
    There it lay, in simple black and white, his brother’s appeal to a lost girlfriend in words that left no doubt how he felt for her. Gilchrist read the letter again, wondering what had caused them to argue over
those last two days
. And what had Jack accused her of? –
things I know you never did
. Had Jack uncovered Kelly’s infidelity? Had he accused her of sleeping around? He had been
sorry for shouting and leaving the flat the way he did
. What had he done?
    But the more Gilchrist read Jack’s letter, the more he realized how explosive it could be in the hands of someone like Tosh. Here was clear evidence of a major falling-out between two lovers, an argument that had Jack storming off from the flat in a fit of rage. In the hands of a competent lawyer, Jack would be painted as a man of violence, a jealous lover, a fit-as-a-fiddle rugby player who had no idea of his own strength as he battered a defenceless woman to death. This letter did not prove Jack’s innocence. Far from it. It might even be argued that it showed how devious he was, having killed Kelly, then written to her in a ploy to prove he cared, the behaviour of someone so callous, cruel and cunning that they should be locked away for life. A competent solicitor might make that stick.
    Gilchrist folded Jack’s letter and slipped it into his pocket. For the time being, it was better to remove it than have others read it. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Despite the rush from the discovery of Jack’s letter, he felt a wave of sleep wash over him. His watch told him it was almost midnight, which put it at five in the morning in Scotland.
    A long day, to say the least.
    He returned the letters to the box, left ten dollars under his half-finished Sam Adams and nodded to the barman on the way out.
    The night was cold, the sky clear and stars seemed to shimmer in a black void. He stood for a while, breathing in the crisp cold air, eyeing the length of Broadway, noting the side streets that fell off to the right, streets that Kelly would have walked, bars and restaurants she would have visited. A high-pitched laugh reached him, and he watched a young couple stroll along the opposite side of the road, arm in arm. Something in the way the girl clung to her partner, both arms holding his, as if for warmth, struck Gilchrist. That could have been Jack and Kelly. If she and Jack had lived, would they have walked this street arm in arm? Would they have married?
    And what of Gilchrist’s own marriage? He had never thought of himself as being impulsive, but his marriage to Gail had been achieved in record time: sixty-five days from first sight to register office, he had once worked out. Had Gail come along at the right moment and filled a void in his life? Or had he filled one in hers, up from Glasgow to the east coast on her summer holidays without a care in the world, except to snag herself a husband?
    The walk along Broadway seemed to revitalize him. Back in