Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

have taken the brunt of the hit, the fibre might not be conclusive. The procurator fiscal would argue that it came from a trouser leg, unequivocal proof that the car had been involved in an accident in which someone had been hit. But the defence would argue that it was nothing more than a piece of rag torn off while its careful owner had been meticulously cleaning his car. Why, just look at these photographs. The car is immaculate.
    But it could be perfect. Shuggie had found two hairs. If those hairs matched Jack’s DNA, which Tosh had already forensically analysed, then no defence solicitor in the land would be able to explain it away.
    ‘Are you still there, Mr Gilchrist?’
    Gilchrist turned. ‘Listen, Shuggie,’ he said, ‘I need you to hold those hair samples for me. I need you to keep them in a safe place until I have someone pick them up.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘Will you do that for me?’
    Shuggie agreed, and Gilchrist hung up.
    He dialled Stan’s number and approached the window again. Narrow slivers of white, orange, yellow streaked the skyline. He had a domestic flight to catch that afternoon, then an international connection in Newark. He would be in Glasgow the following morning, by which time Stan would already have started the chain of custody that could bring his brother’s killer to justice.
    Maybe Megs would have found a photograph of Wee Johnnie by then, too. Or maybe Stan had managed to find out where Wee Johnnie worked, even spoken to him, perhaps had already set up an interview. But if they could lift DNA from the back of the postcards’ stamps . . .
    That could solve the case right there.

CHAPTER 26
     
    At Glasgow International Airport the following morning, Gilchrist passed through customs with barely a pause. He collected his suitcase from the baggage carousel, strode into the arrivals lounge and was powering up his mobile when a hand slapped his shoulder.
    ‘That’s as far as you’re going, Gilchrist.’
    He spun around.
    Tosh had a wide grin on his face. Nance stood beside him, expressionless.
    ‘Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?’ Gilchrist tried, but from the way Nance went for her handcuffs, he knew what was coming.
    ‘Sorry to have to tell you, old son,’ Tosh went on, ‘but you’re being detained under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Scotland Act for attempting to pervert the course of justice in the investigation into the murder of a Ms Kelly Roberts. You are not obliged to say anything . . .’
    As he listened to Tosh continue to read him his rights, he slid his computer case from his shoulder and placed it on the tiled floor. He turned his back to Nance while she cuffed him, quite gently, he thought, and forced his mind to work through the logic.
    He was being detained, not charged. So a warrant for his arrest had not been issued. Which meant they had insufficient evidence against him. Or, more correctly, he imagined, they had not concocted a strong enough case. Not yet, that is. With Greaves in Gilchrist’s corner, he felt sure Randall would want Tosh to play by the rules. They would interview him in North Street, and surely charge him then.
    Handcuffs on, he faced Nance. But she could not hold his gaze.
    ‘Car’s over in the car park, Gilchrist. Not yours. Ours. We’ll have someone drive that fancy little Merc of yours all the way back to the office for you. How fair is that?’
    He shrugged off Tosh’s grip and nodded to his computer case. ‘I’ll take that,’ he said, and leaned forward as Nance slipped the strap over his head. ‘The suitcase is yours,’ he nodded to Tosh, and headed for the exit with Nance by his side.
    The doors slid open and a cold Glasgow draught stopped him. A drizzle as fine as a St Andrews haar dampened his hair. ‘Collar,’ he said to Nance, and tried to engage her eyes as she tugged his jacket collar up around his neck and adjusted the computer-case strap. But her vacant look told him he was on his own, and she took hold of his arm and escorted him from the terminal building. Not quite like old times, he thought, but something in the way they fell into each other’s stride warmed him.
    Tosh caught up with them as they entered the multi-storey car park, and the rest of the walk was carried out under his monosyllabic commands. Left. This way. Stop. Gilchrist tried, ‘Everything all right, Nance?’ But she only gave him a blank look that told him she was having none of it.
    The car was parked on level four,