Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

involuntary shiver. When she had been killed, she had been younger than his daughter, Maureen. And something in that thought sent a cold frisson the length of his spine.
    He turned away.
    On the other table, a white sheet bulged in the shape of a bloated belly. Was the body simply fat, or swollen by the gases of putrefaction? A set of scales stood nearby, their trays glistening wet with slime, and Gilchrist marvelled at Mackie’s apparent resilience to the daily revulsion of his profession – skin that glistened black and blistered like overcooked meat, or peeled from the bone at the touch of a finger, or burst open like ripened fruit.
    He forced his attention back to the skull.
    He stared at it, trying to imagine skin, nose, lips, eyes, hair, all the superficial tissue that forms the human face. He found his gaze pulled to the eye sockets, and wondered what her eyes had last seen. Had she watched her killer strike? Or had she been taken by surprise? Was her last living image that of a word in a book, or a view from her window?
    And her perfect teeth. What had her mouth been like? Had her lips been full or thin? What words had passed between them? Had she called out the name of her killer? Had she screamed? Was that the last sound she made?
    Someone must have known her. Someone must have missed her.
    ‘Anyone from the science lab expected over?’ he asked.
    ‘Later, they tell me.’
    Gilchrist eyed the skeleton. The Police Forensic Science Lab Dundee – PFSLD – had specialists expert in skeletal examination. But
later
was not fast enough. Besides, he needed to ID the woman, and knew someone who might be able to help.
    ‘Is Heather Black still one of the best?’ he asked Mackie.
    ‘Glasgow University?’
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘Last I heard.’
    ‘Overnight the skull to her, would you?’
    While Mackie returned his attention to the ankle bone, Gilchrist stared at the skull. If anyone could put a face to this missing woman, Dr Heather Black could. Until then, he would have to go with what he had.
    ‘Did you find anything on the cigarette lighter?’ he asked.
    Mackie shook his head. ‘One of those lighters you used to buy for ten a penny at Woolies.’
    ‘What about the markings?’
    ‘Inconclusive. Rusted to buggery. The scratches don’t spell out the name of the killer, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Mackie slid the ankle bone back into place, then brushed a finger over the healed fracture as if trying to determine how painful it must have been.
    Something in that action had Gilchrist wondering if it was ever too late to change careers. Rather than experience hardening him, Gilchrist found he had developed a weak stomach for the sights and smells of the mortuary. The memory of one recent postmortem was still fresh in his mind. He had been at a fiftieth the night before and consumed too many beers, as usual. The following morning, pale and heavy-stomached, he faced the decomposing body of a woman recovered from the River Eden and missing for ten days. When Mackie slapped her brain on to the scales with a splashy flourish, it was too much for Gilchrist. He had turned, too late, and vomited as he staggered away.
    Relief surged through him when his mobile rang, then sank when he recognized Mo’s number. He tried to keep his voice light. ‘Hi, Mo.’
    ‘Why didn’t you come back to the clubhouse? Everyone was expecting you.’
    ‘Everyone?’ he said, pushing through the door. ‘I didn’t know anyone.’
    ‘It’s not like you’d have had to have a political debate or anything.’
    He resisted reciting his usual excuse of being too busy. ‘I know, Mo. I’m sorry.’
    ‘If you ever gave Harry a chance, Dad, you’d like him. I know you would.’
    Gilchrist burst into early-afternoon sunlight, the sky bright through a narrow clearing of clouds. Harry’s name being spoken by his daughter still fired some primitive instinct through his system. Gail had left him for Harry, had taken their children with her. Why would Maureen think he would ever give Harry a chance? He tried to keep his voice level. ‘I’ll make a point of talking to him next time we meet.’
    ‘Don’t give me lip service, Dad. I don’t like it.’
    ‘I’m not, Mo, I’m—’
    ‘Mum and Harry were married for seven years, Dad. They were happy together. Did you ever think about that?’
    All the time
, he thought. ‘I know Harry was good for Mum,’ he said. ‘He’s going to miss her. We all are.’ He opened