Read Online Hand for a Hand by Frank Muir - Free Book Online Page B

wings flashing white as they tumbled and swooped in the stiff gusts.
    Gilchrist pulled his collar around his neck and walked towards College Street. The proverbial shit was piled at the fan and splattering through the system. First, ACC McVicar. Second, CS Greaves. Next, DCI Gilchrist, acting SIO in a case stacked against him. His name was printed on a note, and the press were baying for results. Thoughts of having it out with McKinnonsurged through his mind for an angry moment, then he glanced at his watch.
    Just after 8:00. To hell with it. He needed a pint.
    He reached the corner of College and Market Streets and veered left into the Central Bar, promising to have greater willpower in matters of import. If McKinnon photographed him once more with a pint in his hand, well, that was just too damn bad.
    The bar was redolent of cigarettes, beer, and warm food. The air swirled thick and blue under a high ceiling. Piped music competed with raucous laughter. High in the corner a television screen showed a muted football match. Rangers and Hibs, it looked like.
    He found a vacant spot at the bar, close to the till, and managed to catch the barmaid’s eye. She mouthed, With you in a moment . While he waited, he dialled his own home number to talk to Jack, but was shunted into voice mail. He left a message, telling Jack he would be home shortly, and keep your hands off the Glenfiddich. He glanced up to see Nance waving at him from the opposite end of the bar.
    When he joined her, she said, “Caught.”
    “You or me?”
    “Both of us.”
    Gilchrist smiled. Nance was hardworking and thorough. If she wanted to have a drink at the end of a day’s shift, then who was he to question her?
    “Pint?” she asked.
    “You talked me into it.”
    She laughed, a staccato chuckle that almost took him by surprise. It had been some time since he had seen Nance happy. He had heard she had split from Gregg, her partner of eighteen months.
    Nance ordered two pints of Eighty-Shilling.
    “On your second already,” Gilchrist said. “Must’ve been a hard day.”
    “Hard partner, more like.”
    “How are you getting along with my favourite DS?”
    “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
    Gilchrist scanned the faces around the bar. “He’s not here, is he?”
    Nance shook her head. “He’s checking out a lead.”
    “Taking the dog for a walk?”
    Nance chuckled. “I’ve stopped asking,” then tipped the remains of her first pint to her lips. “Cheers.”
    Gilchrist did likewise, loving the beer’s smoothness as the first mouthful slid down his throat. He returned his glass to the counter, ran his fingers across his lips. “Boy, was I ready for that.”
    “Have you heard about the sweepstake?” Nance asked.
    “What sweepstake?”
    “Watt’s started a sweepstake on when the next body part will turn up, and which part it will be.” She grimaced. “He’s one disturbed human being, let me tell you.”
    An image of McKinnon writing a scathing article on Fife Constabulary’s gambling over murder enquiries burst into Gilchrist’s mind with the force of an electric strike. He felt his teeth clench. Watt had to go. The man was a liability. He made a mental note to have it out with him first thing in the morning and have all bets forfeited and the monies deposited into the charity box. Then the slimmest of ideas shimmered before him.
    “Did Watt put on any money?” he asked.
    “He led the way.”
    “Which body part?”
    “Leg.”
    “Left or right?”
    Nance looked at him as if he had sprouted horns. “I don’t know.”
    “And when does he bet this leg is going to turn up?”
    “Tomorrow,” Nance said. “You’re not suggesting.…”
    “Not really. But it’s an interesting thought all the same.”
    Gilchrist lifted his pint. He had not heard from Martin Coyle about Watt’s phone records. Maybe Coyle could turn an interesting thought into something worthwhile.
    “H AUD ON THERE , big man,” said Wee Kenny. “Watch what