throwing up. Scrunching his eyes against the bright light, he grimaced into the mirror. An old man stared back at him, skin grey and salted, eyes creased and bagged. He combed his fingers through his hair, turned on the hot tap. It ran cold, and he splashed some into his mouth where his tongue soaked it up like a desiccated sponge.
He shaved using Jack’s razor and a new blade he found in the cabinet. Then he showered, hot steaming water that he let filter every pore. He lifted his head to the spray, opened his mouth, gurgled and spat. Not a pretty sight, but ten minutes later he felt almost ready to take on the world – or Jeanette Pennycuick, at least.
In the kitchen, he found some fresh orange juice and Irn-Bru and poured himself a large glass, peachy-pink. He burped as Kara entered the kitchen. She looked young and fresh, her pale skin enhanced by cream silk pyjamas, through which the tips of her nipples pressed. She stood in bare feet, her toes as long and slender as fingers.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Stomach.’
‘At least you apologize.’ She held the kettle under the tap. ‘Tea? Coffee? You mustn’t miss breakfast.’
Gilchrist glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll catch something later.’
He was about to step from the kitchen when Kara said, ‘Could I talk to you?’ She shook her head. ‘Not now, I mean. Later. When you’ve got some time.’
‘Sure,’ he said, and gave her his mobile number. ‘Call any time.’
‘I care for Jack,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’
‘Why do you think you’ll lose him?’
She held his gaze, as if deciding whether or not to tell him. ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’
He nodded, then headed for the door, wondering if the changes he’d seen in Jack were what would cause Kara to lose him.
CHAPTER 6
Outside, low clouds seemed ready to smother the city.
Gilchrist found his Roadster where he had left it, relieved to find it had not been clamped. When he sat behind the wheel, he knew from the way he breathed and coughed that he was well over the limit. Before closing the door, he spat a lump of phlegm to the ground, and swore he would never drink whisky again.
He eased the car from the lane in search of a coffee.
Jeanette Pennycuick’s home looked more imposing in the cold light of day. He pulled up behind a silver BMW, then took another sip of his Starbucks. Tall latté was about as hard as he could stomach. It tasted warm and milky and cut through the slag in his mouth. He stuffed the container into the holder in the console, then tore open a packet of chewing gum he hoped would keep his breath fresh, or at least rid his mouth of the residual taste of stale alcohol.
He strode up the gravel path. The grass either side lay neat and trim, and what he had at first taken to be a dark and dingy building was in fact an old stone residence that had been maintained with care. Window frames glistened with fresh paint. Plant beds looked dark and fresh and free of weeds. Even the lion flowerpots seemed more tame, the doorknob harmless.
He pressed the doorbell, coughed his throat clear as the door cracked open.
An attractive woman, who looked to be in her early fifties, stood before him.
He tried a smile. ‘Jeanette Pennycuick?’
‘Yes?’
He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Gilchrist,’ he said, choosing not to mention he was with Fife Constabulary. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Questions? What about?’
‘Routine enquiry.’
She frowned, as if uncertain whether to believe him or not.
‘Inside might be better,’ he suggested.
‘We’re running late.’
‘I won’t keep you.’
‘Problem, darling?’ The man’s voice blasted from the depths of the hall a moment before he, too, appeared in the doorway.
‘It’s the police, Geoffrey.’
He was a good six inches taller than his wife, and glared down at Gilchrist like a Roman emperor about to give the thumbs-down.
He shaved using Jack’s razor and a new blade he found in the cabinet. Then he showered, hot steaming water that he let filter every pore. He lifted his head to the spray, opened his mouth, gurgled and spat. Not a pretty sight, but ten minutes later he felt almost ready to take on the world – or Jeanette Pennycuick, at least.
In the kitchen, he found some fresh orange juice and Irn-Bru and poured himself a large glass, peachy-pink. He burped as Kara entered the kitchen. She looked young and fresh, her pale skin enhanced by cream silk pyjamas, through which the tips of her nipples pressed. She stood in bare feet, her toes as long and slender as fingers.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Stomach.’
‘At least you apologize.’ She held the kettle under the tap. ‘Tea? Coffee? You mustn’t miss breakfast.’
Gilchrist glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll catch something later.’
He was about to step from the kitchen when Kara said, ‘Could I talk to you?’ She shook her head. ‘Not now, I mean. Later. When you’ve got some time.’
‘Sure,’ he said, and gave her his mobile number. ‘Call any time.’
‘I care for Jack,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’
‘Why do you think you’ll lose him?’
She held his gaze, as if deciding whether or not to tell him. ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’
He nodded, then headed for the door, wondering if the changes he’d seen in Jack were what would cause Kara to lose him.
CHAPTER 6
Outside, low clouds seemed ready to smother the city.
Gilchrist found his Roadster where he had left it, relieved to find it had not been clamped. When he sat behind the wheel, he knew from the way he breathed and coughed that he was well over the limit. Before closing the door, he spat a lump of phlegm to the ground, and swore he would never drink whisky again.
He eased the car from the lane in search of a coffee.
Jeanette Pennycuick’s home looked more imposing in the cold light of day. He pulled up behind a silver BMW, then took another sip of his Starbucks. Tall latté was about as hard as he could stomach. It tasted warm and milky and cut through the slag in his mouth. He stuffed the container into the holder in the console, then tore open a packet of chewing gum he hoped would keep his breath fresh, or at least rid his mouth of the residual taste of stale alcohol.
He strode up the gravel path. The grass either side lay neat and trim, and what he had at first taken to be a dark and dingy building was in fact an old stone residence that had been maintained with care. Window frames glistened with fresh paint. Plant beds looked dark and fresh and free of weeds. Even the lion flowerpots seemed more tame, the doorknob harmless.
He pressed the doorbell, coughed his throat clear as the door cracked open.
An attractive woman, who looked to be in her early fifties, stood before him.
He tried a smile. ‘Jeanette Pennycuick?’
‘Yes?’
He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Gilchrist,’ he said, choosing not to mention he was with Fife Constabulary. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Questions? What about?’
‘Routine enquiry.’
She frowned, as if uncertain whether to believe him or not.
‘Inside might be better,’ he suggested.
‘We’re running late.’
‘I won’t keep you.’
‘Problem, darling?’ The man’s voice blasted from the depths of the hall a moment before he, too, appeared in the doorway.
‘It’s the police, Geoffrey.’
He was a good six inches taller than his wife, and glared down at Gilchrist like a Roman emperor about to give the thumbs-down.
Similar Books
