Free Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3) by T.F. Muir Page A

week.’
    Gilchrist turned to the window. The cold from the glass felt good against the warmth of his face. Their periods. How bloody simple. Why had he not thought of that? Would Nance have worked it out? Or Stan? He faced the room again.
    ‘How did you light your cigars?’ he asked.
    ‘This is preposterous,’ snapped Pennycuick. ‘What on earth has lighting cigars got to do with anything? I think we’ve heard quite enough.’ He held out his hand. ‘Jeanette?’
    She looked at him, but made no attempt to stand.
    He glared at her for a moment, then growled, ‘I’ll be in the car. And I’ll be leaving in exactly one minute.’
    Gilchrist waited until it was only the two of them. The room seemed larger without Pennycuick’s presence. And Jeanette seemed smaller, too, almost insecure. ‘Where do you work?’ he asked her.
    ‘The city centre.’
    A car door slammed. Gilchrist glanced out the window. ‘I can give you a lift, if you’d like.’
    Jeanette stood, patted the creases from her skirt. ‘If you have no further questions,’ she said, ‘I’d rather Geoffrey dropped me off.’
    Gilchrist nodded. ‘After you.’
    He followed her along the hallway where a cold wind blew in through the opened front door. As he stepped outside, he caught sight of Pennycuick’s flushed face through the windscreen of his BMW. He waited until Jeanette locked the front door.
    ‘You never did answer my question,’ he said.
    ‘I didn’t?’
    ‘How did you light your cigars?’
    ‘With a candle.’
    She stepped down the slabbed footpath, her heels ringing in the icy air.
    Gilchrist wrapped his arms around himself to fend off the chill. Somehow the air in Glasgow felt colder than in St Andrews, as if the west-coast dampness could infiltrate the heaviest of garments. ‘A candle,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t remember the Central Bar ever having candles on the table.’
    ‘We brought our own.’
    Gilchrist almost stopped. ‘But why would you bring a candle?’
    She smirked as she stepped through the gateway. When he followed, she pulled the wrought-iron gate towards her, closing it with a hard metallic clang. ‘Now, why else would nice girls carry candles around with them, Inspector?’
    Gilchrist stepped aside as she opened the passenger door and slid on to the seat, her skirt riding high on stockinged thighs. He watched the BMW accelerate down the hill, its exhaust leaving a white trail that swirled to the ground. His breath puffed in the cold air as if in weak imitation. He coughed, and something vile hit his tongue, causing him to fight off an almost overpowering need to throw up.
    The Pennycuicks had mocked him. He watched their BMW’s brake lights flash as it turned towards Great Western Road without indicating. An image of Geoffrey Pennycuick flickered into his mind. Pinstriped suit, starched white shirt, shining black shoes. Gilchrist looked down at his own feet, at leather that had not seen polish in three days. Grey scuff-marks soiled the uppers. Then Jeanette surfaced beside the image of her husband, her black hair glistening in the light from the window, her white blouse thin enough to reveal the floral pattern of her bra.
    Cigars. Periods. Candles.
    If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny.
    Gilchrist faced his Roadster. It looked small and worn compared to Pennycuick’s BMW. He turned on the ignition and gripped the steering wheel while the car’s engine split the silence of a suburban Glasgow morning. He fought off the crazy urge to floor the pedal, then pulled into Drive and eased away from the pavement.
    He replayed the interview, struggling to force his thoughts through the haze of his hangover. It was not until he turned off Hyndland Road and was nearing Glasgow University that he realized his failing. He fumbled in his pocket and removed her business card. He read the company name.
ScotInvest
. The address in Bath Street. Her name and title, Jeanette W. Pennycuick, MBA, Human Resources Director. He