Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

to Gilchrist that he was dealing with someone who had not acted on impulse, who had not killed Kelly in a spontaneous fit of rage and disposed of her body in a rush. In other words, Kelly’s murder was premeditated.
    No one would have missed her. She was leaving Scotland, returning home. And who better to know the perfect moment to commit the deed? None other than Rita’s boyfriend, Brian.
    Gilchrist pulled up what he could remember of Brian.
    Not tall, but physically strong from playing rugby. Much shorter than Rita, five-six or -seven or thereabouts. Bad skin and straggly hair. Gilchrist remembered thinking Rita and Brian looked an odd couple, Rita tall with smooth skin and shining hair, and Brian short and scruffy with hair like a tramp. Perhaps the thought of having sex with a blonde American girl with a reputation for putting it about could have been too much for Brian to resist.
    Gilchrist picked up the postcard from Mexico. Again, addressed to Kelly’s parents. Again, typed. And date-stamped the American style, with the month first – 03/14/69. He compared the postcards. The letter ‘t’ on the Mexican postcard had a slight tilt to it, and the serif on the letter ‘y’ had a break. He searched the St Andrews postcard and confirmed his thoughts. Two different typewriters. Had this been typed in Scotland, then mailed from Mexico? Or had the killer flown to Mexico and typed it there? At that thought, an image of Lorena Cordoba tried to form in his mind, beside it, the grey shadow of someone else. But his mind refused to pull them up, and they both faded from view.
    He focused once more on the postcard.
     
Having a great time. Staying on in Mexico a bit longer. Expect to be back at the end of April. Will give you a call. Love, Kelly xx
     
    What had Kelly’s parents thought when they received this postcard? It gave no details of where she was staying, no town, no hotel, no names of friends, no phone number. How long had they waited before they realized their daughter was never coming home? The killer had built a wall of time and created a belief that Kelly had left Scotland for Mexico.
    The plan was simple, ingenious.
    But was it foolproof?
    How had the postcard been mailed from Mexico? Had the killer given it to Lorena and asked her to post it when she visited her parents over New Year? Had the killer sent it in an envelope to a friend in Mexico with instructions to post it to the States? Or had the killer visited Mexico with Lorena and mailed it himself?
    Himself?
Had Kelly’s mother not told him that the Sheriff’s Office had checked the flight manifesto and confirmed that Kelly had been on the plane to Mexico? Which meant someone had purchased a ticket to Mexico and travelled as Kelly Roberts. Did the next logical step not indicate that the killer was therefore a woman?
    Again, Lorena’s face popped into Gilchrist’s mind.
    And again, too many questions, too few answers.
    The rest of the files revealed nothing more, and Gilchrist slipped the postcards into his jacket pocket, closed the lid and returned the box to its shelf. Downstairs, he told the clerk that he had to leave to take a personal call, and could he thank Detective Latham for him.
    Back in his car on Route 50, he was thinking he was no further forward than he was two days ago when his mobile rang. He felt a cold chill as he recognized the international code followed by the number of his office in North Street. Spreading the white lie that he was on the south coast of England was one thing. Being tracked down in the States with a new phone and SIM card was another. He chose not to answer; instead, he slipped it into his pocket and did not retrieve his message until he returned to his hotel.
    ‘You’re up to your neck in shite this time, Gilchrist. South coast, my arse. I’m preparing a warrant for your arrest, and if I don’t hear back from you by five o’clock tonight, and that’s Scottish time, so don’t even think about trying to fuck around with me, you’re mine. You know the number, so give me a call.’
    Gilchrist listened to the message again.
    South coast, my arse
.
    So, Tosh must have spoken to Jack or Maureen. The fact that he would even consider doing that, dragging Gilchrist’s family into an internal investigation, had Gilchrist gritting his teeth and making a silent promise that when all of this was over, when all was done and dusted, he would find a way of having Tosh removed from the Force.
    For one illogical