Hand for a Hand by Frank Muir Page B

the post-mortem of his own sister-in-law. Grim-faced, Mackie turned the right hand over and pointed a finger to a pink mark at the base of the thumb. “This is the only scar I detected.”
    Gilchrist felt his lungs deflate. He had his answer. His peripheral vision watched Jack’s body sway as if buffeted by a wind. He grasped his arm, tightened his grip. “Jack,” he said, “I need you to be sure.”
    “It’s her,” Jack whispered. “It’s Chloe.”
    Gilchrist stared at Jack’s face. For his own benefit, he needed to hear more. “No doubts?” he asked.
    Jack opened his eyes. His cheeks glistened with tears. His breath shuddered as he stared at the hands, and he surprised Gilchrist by leaning closer and reaching out as if to lift the hand from the gurney. Instead, he tapped the back of his own hand. “When Chloe was ten years old she crushed a knuckle on her left hand. Her pinkie knuckle. Compared to the others, it looked flat when she made a fist.”
    Gilchrist glanced at Mackie. “Did you take x-rays?”
    Mackie nodded. He replaced the right hand, picked up the left, and pointed to the small knuckle. “Fifth metacarpal shows evidence of having sustained a similar injury.” He looked at Jack. “Did she say how it happened?”
    “She’d been watching TV. Some judo expert. She tried to punch her fist through a block of wood.” He gave a wan smile.“She said that was a defining moment in her life, when she realised she would be an artist, not a martial arts expert.”
    Mackie returned his attention to the hand, giving Gilchrist the impression he was leaving the hard part to him.
    “That’s all for now, Bert.” Gilchrist tugged Jack’s arm, felt a moment’s resistance, then Jack was by his side, out the refrigerated room, into a short corridor. They pushed through the door and stepped into the grey light and cold air of a late winter afternoon. They walked past Gilchrist’s Merc and over to the edge of the car park. Then stopped.
    Jack breathed hard through his nostrils. “I’m not mistaken,” he said. “It’s Chloe.”
    Gilchrist said nothing. Christ, what would he give for a cigarette at that moment? Fourteen years since he last had a smoke, and the need still hit him like an unscratchable itch deep in his gut. “Why don’t you stay here for a couple of days?” he said. “I’ll be instructing Forensics to examine your flat.”
    Jack turned to him, eyes burning. “You don’t think I had—”
    “No, Jack. I don’t. It’s standard procedure. We need samples of clothing, hair from Chloe’s hairbrush, stuff like that, to check her DNA.” He looked away, felt Jack’s eyes on him. Christ. He had the scar, the crushed knuckle. They would lift Chloe’s fingerprints from Jack’s flat. How conclusive did identification have to be? He gave Jack’s shoulder a quick squeeze, not sure if he was trying to be strong for Jack or himself.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m truly sorry.”
    Gilchrist watched his son walk to the car. Part of him was aching, too, for Chloe, for Jack. But his own pain seemed smothered in dread. The killer was clever. They would not find the rest of the body intact, Gilchrist knew. He knew that with certainty. All he could do was dig harder, look deeper, try to find some lead to work on. But his heart told him they were just waiting for the next body part to turn up.
    And he was not sure he could take that.

Chapter 9
    G ILCHRIST CONTACTED D AINTY Small with confirmation of Jack’s ID, and asked if Dainty could have someone keep an eye on Maureen for him.
    “Bloody hell, Andy. We’re stretched thin as it is. But I’ll see what I can do.”
    Strathclyde Police visited Chloe’s parents and informed them of their suspicions, always suspicions, nothing definite until they conclusively matched the DNA results or the fingerprints. He drove to Glasgow and assisted Forensics with their search of Jack’s flat. Three pairs of Chloe’s knickers were removed from the