The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  ‘Sir?’ Detective Constable McEwan was looking at him quizzically.

  ‘Okay, let’s get on with it,’ Wilson said, stepping out of the car and letting the younger woman follow him up the path.

  The ring of the doorbell seemed to echo through the house, the two officers listening for footsteps within. The door was opened suddenly, however, as though the woman had been waiting for their arrival.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Wilson. Detective Constable McEwan,’ he said, nodding towards the red-haired woman who stood on the threshold.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, opening the door wider and standing to the side. Just as though she were the lady of the house, Wilson told himself, an irrational flash of annoyance making him frown; though to be fair to the woman, she had been expecting them, he reminded himself.

  It was pretty much as Wilson remembered: the desk in the bay window to the front, the old rocking chair still with its plumped-up cushions to one side of the dining area, a breakfast bar the only structure to separate the kitchen from the rest of this long, bright room.

  ‘Would you like to sit here?’ Vivien Gilmartin asked, indicating the high-backed chairs around the square table. ‘Easier to have tea,’ she said, moving towards the kitchen, where Wilson spotted a tray already prepared with three of Maggie’s best china teacups and saucers. He motioned McEwan to sit next to him while he regarded the widow with interest. She was smaller than Maggie, fine-boned and with the sort of pale complexion that redheads often had. Her black dress emphasised that slim figure, its full skirt sweeping just below knee length, elegant and understated as befitted a woman recently bereaved. Yet when Vivien Gilmartin returned with the tea tray in her hands, Wilson saw that beneath the pallor and the mourning clothes she was an exceptionally attractive woman.

  ‘I am sorry to have to . . .’

  Wilson bit his lip. Why was he apologising for doing his job?

  Her tentative smile, these green eyes trembling with tears; they had to be ignored if he were to carry out this interview with any success.

  ‘There are several things we need to ask you, Mrs Gilmartin,’ Wilson continued more briskly.

  Vivien nodded, a little sigh escaping from her lips. ‘I understand. William told me what to expect.’ She smiled at them both in turn, then lifted a silver teapot, one that Wilson had never seen before.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘We require information about your husband, Mrs Gilmartin,’ Wilson began. ‘Can you tell us exactly why he had come to Glasgow?’

  ‘Work,’ Vivien replied shortly, sitting at the table. ‘Charles was setting up a project with an African theatre group. Part of the wider remit of the Commonwealth Games is to provide cultural experiences for all the visitors to Scotland,’ she explained, looking at McEwan, who sat sipping her tea. ‘We would have been bringing the show to several venues, notably the Edinburgh Festival.’

  ‘Would have been? You mean it’s being cancelled?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Vivien nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘There is no way it can proceed without Charles.’ Her glance fell and Wilson detected a tremor in her hand as she laid down her teacup.

  ‘He has nobody to take his place, then?’

  ‘No.’ Vivien shook her head. ‘It’s quite impossible now. Charles was the driving force behind it all. Without him it is simply a non-starter.’

  ‘Won’t there be difficulties in cancelling it all?’ McEwan asked hesitantly.

  Vivien shrugged. ‘The Africans weren’t due to arrive for rehearsals until June. And the cultural programme for the Edinburgh Festival isn’t out until then either.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ McEwan remarked. ‘You must be disappointed after all the work that had gone in to make it happen.’

  Vivien gave a short, dry laugh. ‘Disappointed? I think that’s the least of what I am feeling right now.’

  ‘Who else was involved in the Scottish end of things?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Oh, lots of people were involved, of course, but nobody we actually knew. At least, nobody in person. Various government agencies were behind it, of course. Masses of telephone calls. Lots of paperwork,’ she said.

  ‘So there wouldn’t be anyone visiting you at the rented flat, somebody who had a key?’

  Vivien shook her head. ‘I can see what you’re asking me,’ she sighed. ‘But it is as much of a mystery to me who was in the flat that night.’

  Wilson watched as she sat back, clasping her hands together on her lap, no doubt digging her nails into the soft flesh to stop from weeping.

  ‘Can you take me through the day of his death, Mrs Gilmartin? Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Vivien looked up, eyeing the two detectives in turn. She swallowed hard before answering.

  ‘I was out a lot of the day. Arranging the school reunion.’ She paused as though collecting her thoughts. ‘Charles went to the local theatre, the Citizens, where he was to put on a week of performances.’

  ‘When did he go to the theatre?’

  ‘Oh, late morning, early afternoon, I think. He was in the flat before that, on the phone to London mostly, making arrangements about the scenery, I think.’ She shook her head. ‘It was such a busy day,’ she apologised. ‘My head was full of the reunion and I was at the school all afternoon setting things up.’

  ‘But you came back to get ready?’ McEwan asked.

  Wilson gave an imperceptible nod, approving the officer’s question. A woman would ask that sort of thing, understanding the need to prepare for a special occasion.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what time was that?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘About five o’clock, I suppose. I gave myself time to shower and change, then left again just after six. The taxi came to the back door of the building.’

  ‘And how did your husband seem when you came back to the flat?’ Wilson wanted to know.

  Vivien’s eyes widened. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I tell anyone?’ She looked from one to the other as though this was something that had never occurred to her. ‘Charles wasn’t there.’

  Wilson tried to remain impassive, though in truth his mind was already creating a possible scenario.

  ‘Did your husband expect to be returning with anyone from the theatre while you were out?’

  Vivien frowned. ‘I’ve really no idea. He certainly didn’t tell me he had any plans like that.’

  ‘Had anyone visited either of you at the flat?’

  ‘No. Nobody.’ She looked from one officer to the other, green eyes widening as the thought took hold. ‘Do you think he brought his murderer back with him?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s the only explanation that makes any sense,’ Wilson said as they drove away from the Lorimers’ home. ‘Gilmartin brings someone back when his wife is at her school thing. Goes to bed,’ he turned to McEwan with a meaningful glance, ‘then is given a lethal cocktail of some sort, already prepared by whoever it was who came back with him.’

  ‘A woman?’

  Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Who knows? Some of these arty types swing both ways. Could’ve been a man. Could have been more than one person. And that,’ he said firmly, ‘is what we have to find out.’

  Lorimer looked at the initial report. He’d been there, done nothing to stop that female officer from washing the bed linen. Had he been too preoccupied with Vivien sobbing on his shoulder to imagine that the flat could possibly be a crime scene? No, he reasoned. His instincts would have made him far more cautious had there been any grounds for suspicion. A heart attack, the doctor had said, and they’d taken his word for it. Never once had the thought of murder intruded into his thoughts that night. And now vital evidence was missing for good. Was there something else they might have found? Had Gilmartin been in bed with someone other than his wife? The thought came unbidden to the detective’s mind just as it would in any case like this where so many possibilities had to be examined. Any traces in the bedclothes might have been tested for DNA and matched against the theatr
e people Gilmartin had known up here. Rosie had insisted that there was nothing like that on Gilmartin’s body, however. So perhaps whoever had lured the man into bed had administered the drink before the promise of any sexual play. Lorimer shuddered. He was glad that Wilson was in charge of this case, but each step of the investigation still came back to him in the form of these reports. Vivien did not know that, and he wasn’t going to let her know, though she must have suspected that he was keeping all further intelligence from her.

  The detective superintendent thought back to the previous year when he had scribbled his signature at the foot of that letter of invitation to the reunion. It had been a capricious moment, the memory of his youthful dalliance encouraging him to see her once again, but it was now one that filled him with a deep regret.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The man in the corner of the coffee bar sat reading the Gazette, his face hidden from sight behind the opened paper, a deliberate ploy to remain unseen by the person he had come to watch.

  As disguises went, his was fairly standard: false beard, a fashionable flat cap over his thinning hair and heavy spectacles that contained nothing more than ordinary plastic lenses. He had known this was the place that the couple frequented before Gayle Finnegan began her day’s work at the Albion Street offices, for it was not the first time he had spied on the young man.

  His newest recruit troubled him; that arrogant lift of his shoulders when he was asked to carry out a necessary action. As if he had done it all before.

  None of them had, the man in the corner thought. This would be entirely without precedent. The bomb exploding at the opening of the Games at Parkhead Stadium would signal complete and utter contempt for the foreign regime that headed up his country. Every time the man thought of it happening he had a queer sensation in the pit of his stomach, the sort of excitement that anticipation for a promised treat had always brought him as a small boy.

  As he waited for Cameron Gregson to arrive at the coffee shop, the man recalled the explosion in the Stirlingshire countryside the previous August. That had been a success, and according to his sources close to the security services, there was nothing to link any of them with the event. And there would be nothing to link them with the final explosion at Parkhead in July either. One of his team had served in Iraq, the bitter disillusion that followed making him a prime target for recruiting. But this was a different sort of war and his soldiers would remain anonymous. There would simply be a notice in the press about why their act of terror had been carried out. And it would be something that Scottish people would never forget, something to be written in the history books for all time.

  He watched the young couple come into Berits & Brown together, their body language giving away more than they realised. Or perhaps, the man thought, they didn’t care that their closeness and the way the young man pressed his thigh against the girl’s was noticeable to anyone who cared to observe them. That was fine. Gregson (oh yes, he knew the fellow’s identity all right) was doing just what he had been commanded to do: infiltrate the very heart of the enemy’s territory, keep a close watch on all that was happening in the run-up to the Games.

  Looking over the edge of the newspaper, he saw Gregson look his way and for a heartbeat he thought his cover had been blown. But no, the younger man had turned away again and was talking to the girl, telling her what sort of coffee he wanted. That was good, he told himself as they left the shop carrying small brown paper bags containing their breakfasts. She had less than five minutes before making it to work on time. Gregson must have kept her lingering in bed this morning, he thought, looking after them and seeing the smile on Gayle Finnegan’s face as she cuddled closer to her boyfriend’s side.

  His own expression was quite impassive as he imagined the moment when the bomb exploded, that smile being wiped off the young woman’s face for ever.

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’ Maggie asked, turning back to see Vivien standing at the kitchen sink, one hand already in the pocket of her silk dressing gown. She’ll be whipping out the fags as soon as I’m gone, Maggie thought.

  ‘I’ll be fine. No need to worry,’ Vivien replied with a brittle little smile. ‘I don’t mind being on my own.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie stopped and turned back for a moment, the heavy satchel weighing on her shoulder. ‘You won’t actually be on your own all day. Flynn’s coming over this morning.’

  ‘Flynn?’ For a moment Vivien’s brow creased in an anxious furrow.

  ‘Our gardener. More of a friend, really. He’ll come in and make his own coffee. Knows where everything is.’

  In truth, Maggie had considered letting the young man know the circumstances behind the red-haired woman’s presence, but Lorimer had cautioned against saying anything at all while the investigation proceeded.

  Maggie closed the door behind her and set off for work. It had been a long Easter break, the red-haired woman’s plight taking up all of her attention, and now that Charles Gilmartin’s death was being considered as a murder investigation, goodness knows how long Vivien would be staying with them.

  The school teacher drove off, a feeling of lightness in her spirits as she contemplated the term ahead. Despite the pressure of imminent exams, she was looking forward to being with her senior pupils again and preparing them as best she could. It was warmer today, another spell of sunny weather forecast after the changeable days they had endured throughout the holidays. Once the kids were on exam leave, heads down in a final effort to gain good passes, the weather would pick up. It was the law of natural cussedness, her friend Sandie often remarked, that term-time brought the best of the sunshine while the vacations were usually damp and miserable. Still, it hadn’t all been a washout, Maggie thought. She’d managed a bit of gardening, tidying the borders before the time came to plant out the usual annuals. At least Flynn would see that she had made a bit of an effort.

  Joseph Alexander Flynn had good reason to be whistling cheerfully as he drove the green van up the Lorimers’ driveway. It was several years now since he had first stood at their door, a waif rescued from disaster by the tall detective, his feet set on a better path than the one he had followed before meeting William Lorimer. He grinned as he lifted down the mowing machine and trundled it around to the back of the house. The front garden was small and neat, easy enough for Maggie to manage, but the back was a different challenge. Here the lawn straggled over more than half their quarter-acre, the rest being given over to flower beds, shrubs and mature trees, a haven for Chancer the ginger cat, who came at that moment to greet him, tail erect, waiting for the gardener to tickle him behind his ears.

  ‘Hello?’

  Flynn stood up, surprised to hear a woman’s voice coming from the kitchen doorway. Standing just outside on the step was an elegant red-haired lady, one hand cupping her elbow, the other languidly holding a cigarette.

  This woman might have stepped straight out of a television advert, she looked so perfect. The dark trousers emphasised her slim figure and under the pale grey shirt that was unbuttoned just low enough, Flynn could see the rise of her breasts. But it was the face that cast its spell; different from the ones plastered across all those beauty magazines in the newsagent’s where he bought his daily paper, this face had character and experience, a knowingness in the green eyes that made the young man feel instantly aroused. She stood there letting him watch her, then smiled as though she could read his thoughts.

  ‘You must be Flynn,’ she said, and took a drag at her cigarette, blowing the smoke over her shoulder.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m Vivien,’ she told him. ‘Did Mrs Lorimer tell you that I’m staying with them for a while?’

  Flynn shook his head, still gazing at this unexpected vision of loveliness, all too conscious of his own grubby dungarees and thick-soled boots.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you back,’ she said. ‘Just let me know when you’d like a break, won’t you?’ she added, smiling in a way that seemed to
suggest she might be offering more than tea and biscuits.

  Flynn continued to trundle the lawnmower towards the grassy areas, wondering who this woman was and what she was doing with the Lorimers.

  Vivien Gilmartin stood at the kitchen window, watching as Flynn stooped to pull the cord on the mower, then, as the machine burst into life, her gaze followed him across the garden and her green eyes narrowed as an idea took root in her mind.

  If Joseph Alexander Flynn was surprised to see the woman kneeling by a flower bed, hands safely protected by Maggie’s gardening gloves, he did not show it. She didn’t look the type to get her hands dirty, but appearances could be deceptive, as Flynn knew only too well. Besides, a little weeding would not go amiss, and perhaps this Vivien person wanted to be helpful to the Lorimers, he thought, concentrating on his own task as the red-haired woman bent over, the small gardening fork digging deep into the crumbly soil.

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ Wilson said.

  He was sitting in Lorimer’s office, sun streaming through the slatted blinds, the detective superintendent leaning back in his seat behind his desk, fingers steepled against his lips.

  ‘That’s a lot of money. And the press release? When does it go out?’

  ‘Tomorrow. With the mention of a substantial reward for information leading to an arrest and conviction. I can just see the headlines now,’ Wilson sighed. ‘Impresario poisoned in city flat.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor chap. And he was in the running for a knighthood?’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Gilmartin told me.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to stay any longer,’ Wilson said. ‘The Fiscal reckons we can release Gilmartin’s body for burial down south.’

  ‘Burial. Not cremation?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Wilson smiled thinly. ‘You never know when we might need it again.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mrs Gilmartin tonight,’ Lorimer said.