Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

Gilchrist’s face. He watched them turn in one direction, then the other, and from the rushed breathing knew that Tosh was hard-pressed to keep going. His own breath was coming at him hard and fast, and a spasm gripped his body as his lungs convulsed to cough up more phlegm. He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, forced his body to ignore the overpowering need to cough, then felt all hope leave him as he heard the beeping of numbers being tapped into a mobile phone.
    Who was Tosh calling?
    Gilchrist could not power down his mobile. Not now. The slightest movement would attract Tosh’s peripheral vision. If Tosh was calling his number, then it really was all over.
    At that moment, Tosh chose the deeper path and ran off.
    Gilchrist tugged out his mobile, powered it down and coughed up phlegm. He waited until the spasm ceased and he could no longer hear footsteps before pulling himself and his computer case from the bottom of the hedgerow.
    He ran back the way he had come.
    He had just cleared the hedge, stepped back into the street, when he came face to face with Nance. She stood no more than ten feet away, barely breathing, arms by her side. He might be able to outrun Tosh, but he could never tire Nance.
    ‘Johnnie Walker,’ he said. ‘He went out with Lorena Cordoba, murdered Kelly and sent the postcard from Mexico. You need to find him.’
    ‘Too late.’ She shook her head. ‘Stan’s just found out he committed suicide sixteen years ago.’
    Nance’s words fired through Gilchrist’s mind with the power of a lightning strike. Without Wee Johnnie, could he prove his case? With all the evidence, circumstantial or not, the procurator fiscal would have no trouble laying Kelly’s murder at Jack’s feet with a damning case. Any competent lawyer could. And as for his own dilemma? He could now see no other way out of it except through a custodial sentence.
    He stood there, helpless, waiting for Nance to pull out her handcuffs.
    ‘I need more time,’ he tried.
    ‘To do what, Andy? Think about what you’re asking me to do.’
    ‘Jack’s innocent.’ He held her dark eyes, prayed she knew him well enough to know he had to be telling the truth, that his brother was no murderer.
    She glanced along the communal path. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ she said. ‘Just go.’
    Gilchrist turned and ran.
    His knowledge of the backstreets of Cupar was nowhere near as good as he thought it was and he had to backtrack twice. Once, when he had to cross the main street, he saw Tosh about a hundred yards away, giving instructions to two motorcycle policemen, arm stabbing and waving in the air. Even from that distance, Gilchrist could sense the man’s anger.
    He slipped down a narrow lane and continued jogging.
    By the time he worked his way to his destination, a tidy bungalow in a quiet neighbourhood, police sirens called from the distance like waning birdsong.
    He rang the doorbell and prayed she was in.

CHAPTER 27
     
    The door opened to reveal a slimmer version of the Megs he had last seen twenty years earlier. Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘Well,’ she said, stepping back to invite him in, ‘it’s been a while.’
    Gilchrist pushed past her into a narrow hallway.
    ‘Kitchen’s straight ahead.’
    Gilchrist opened a pine door and entered a room brightened by a conservatory that overlooked a rock garden, the soil turned over for the winter. The sweet smell of pineapple had him searching for fruit going off, and he found a glass bowl on the work surface by the sink filled with chopped pineapple, grapefruit, oranges. A half-skinned mango lay on a chopping board, ready to be added.
    ‘Tea?’ Megs asked. ‘Or something stronger? You look buggered. What’ve you been up to?’ She pulled out a chair. ‘Here. You’d better sit before you fall down.’
    Gilchrist slid his computer case to the floor. ‘Tea’s fine.’
    ‘You sure you’re all right?’
    ‘Just flew in from the States.’
    ‘Well that explains it. Jet lag’s pure murder, so it is. I swear it’s a disease. Milk and sugar?’
    ‘Milk. No sugar.’
    ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ She removed a tin from a glass-fronted cupboard, tipped an assortment of biscuits on to a plate. ‘Tell you what,’ Megs went on, ‘you look like you could be doing with a bit of filling up. If you were a woman, I’d hate you. All skin and bone. Not like me. Look at this.’ She lifted her skirt, farther than he thought decent. ‘Farmer’s legs are what I have. Fat