by Alex Gray
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Poor man.’ Joanne paused for a moment. The fate of strangers was a passing thought, nothing for her to worry about. And if their host had been replaced by a different man so speedily, perhaps that showed how organised they were. ‘What’s his name, this new one. Is he a MacGregor too?’
‘Well now. I’d have to say that he is, though not exactly by name. Same clan, different branch of the family.’ Peter smiled as he looked at his wife. ‘Our new host is a young man called Cameron Gregson.’
Chapter Forty-Four
‘I think she was hanged,’ Rosie said at last. ‘Though whether she did it herself or not is impossible to tell.’
Lorimer nodded. The post-mortem was certainly consistent with both Okonjo and Boro’s statements. They had found the girl hanging from a light fitting in her bedroom. She had only arrived the previous night, Okonjo had insisted.
‘No tattoo,’ Rosie remarked, her gloved fingers indicating the smooth flesh on the inner thigh.
‘If she had just come in, they wouldn’t have had time to brand her,’ Lorimer replied bitterly.
‘Perhaps it’s true. She did take her own life and they panicked?’
The detective superintendent made a face. That was certainly going to be the solicitor’s defence for his client. They had found the girl dead in her room and needed to get rid of the corpse.
‘And like a dog returning to its own vomit, they headed to the very place where they had dumped the previous body,’ he declared.
It seemed days, not hours ago when he had been racing across the grass at that lumbering figure, certain he could bring him down in a rugby tackle. He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving the scene before the blow that had rendered him unconscious.
There had been that moment when McAlpin had raised his hand and thrown something into the marshy depths of the pond. Something significant? Something to do with the terrorist cell? He sighed, weary from the lack of sleep as much as from the effort of thinking along parallel lines. Did they even have the resources to trawl that pond? And if they did, wouldn’t it be a sheer waste of time, the layers of silt no doubt having swallowed up whatever small object had been hurled into them. Finding McAlpin himself was exhausting their manpower as it was.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ Rosie said suddenly. ‘You’re as white as a ghost.’
Lorimer gripped the window ledge outside the viewing platform, feeling his body sway. She was right. He’d be no use to anyone like this, and a few hours’ sleep alone in the house would make all the difference. Besides, he told himself, there was a team of Special Branch forensic officers already at the flat, picking over every little detail. He was to be permitted to take a look later on, once they had completed their task.
He had forgotten about it being Flynn’s day to work on their garden, but as he drew into the driveway it was obvious that the young man was there, his dark green pickup truck parked outside.
The detective superintendent could hear the sound of the mower coming from the back garden as he put the key into the lock; if he crept upstairs, closed the window and the curtains, then perhaps Flynn would not even realise that he was at home. Minutes later, his clothes laid on a chair next to the window, Lorimer slid naked between cool sheets, groaning in sheer relief as his head sank into the soft pillow. Despite the trundling mower outside, he was asleep in seconds.
Joseph Alexander Flynn whistled tunelessly as he strode up and down the lawn, the music from his earphones masking the noise of the petrol-driven mower. It was a good day to be doing this particular job: the sun shone overhead and there was just the hint of a breeze keeping the soaring temperature from burning his bare arms. A quick glance at the flower beds told him that there lay his next task. Weeds proliferated everywhere, and despite Maggie’s best intentions, she rarely had time to devote herself to the garden except during school holidays. The soil would be dusty and dry, easy enough to manage, and any stubborn weeds would get a dose of the industrial-strength weedkiller that Flynn kept for his clients’ gardens. As Lorimer slept on, the young man stopped from time to time, emptying the grass cuttings on to the compost heap before returning to his task.
Maggie had insisted that Flynn be given a key to the back door. ‘You’ll need to have a tea break,’ she had told him way back when Flynn had first undertaken their gardening on a regular basis. ‘Besides, what if you need the loo?’ she’d added with a smile. And it was not as if Flynn did not know this house. It had been his home for a short time, a temporary refuge when he had been discharged from hospital, a homeless street lad taken in by the tall policeman after the accident that had almost cost Flynn his life. They had forged a strange friendship back then, one that had been nurtured by Maggie on her return from that exchange programme in the US and, Flynn recalled with a sad expression on his face, by Maggie’s late mum. He still missed the older woman’s bossiness and the cartons of home-made soup that she had always put aside for him.
As he trundled the mower back out on to the pavement, he spotted the silver Lexus. A swift glance upwards took in the curtains drawn against the bright sunlight. He nodded to himself, glad that the rest of his work would be quiet. He would leave the strimming for another day, concentrating on the weeds instead to allow the man upstairs time to sleep. God alone knew what sort of case the tall policeman was working on, but Flynn was savvy enough about Lorimer’s life to understand the long hours that were sometimes demanded.
Maybe he would have a cold drink first, he decided, heaving the machine back into the truck. Wiping his hands on the greasy sides of his trousers, he headed back around the side of the house and let himself into the kitchen.
‘Hello, you!’ He bent down to the orange cat that was stretching itself beside his basket and tickled it behind one ear. ‘Sleeping off a night’s hunting, eh?’ The cat rubbed its flank against the young man’s leg, then strolled through the open door and out into the brightness of the day.
Flynn opened the fridge and selected a carton of cranberry juice. His eyes fell on a half-finished lemon cheesecake with a Post-it note attached. Help yourself, Maggie had written, and Flynn grinned as he drew out the plate. It was his favourite and Maggie knew it.
Outside, Chancer the cat stopped at the patch of earth between two purple and yellow plants. There was just enough room to squat and do his business. His fastidious habit satisfied, the cat sniffed the earth then scraped hard, his back paws making deep gouges in the dry soil. He was completely unaware of the tinkling sound behind him or of the light catching the slim glass phials as they rolled on to the path. His green eyes had spied a butterfly hovering above a shrub straight ahead and Chancer crouched down low, belly to the ground as he began to stalk the creature.
Flynn pushed the silver foil plate into a triangle before shoving it into the pedal bin. With a sigh of satisfaction, he stepped out of the shady kitchen and into the sunlight once more. Pulling on a cotton hat to protect his head, he walked up to the flower bed nearest to the back door.
The gardener tilted his head to one side, screwing up his eyes. What was that glittering on the path? And why hadn’t he spotted them before? He hunkered down, noticing the soil scraped away from the border. Chancer had been there. And his strong paws had dug something up. Flynn put out a finger and touched the three thin tubes of glass lying on the path. As he did so, he saw that there was something inside them, like dark stains clouding the glass.
Thought you might want to take a closer look at them, the note said.
Lorimer rolled the three tiny phials in his fingers, his eyes trying to focus, his mind still blurred from the hours of sleep. Call me, the note had concluded. Flynn’s mobile number was scribbled below, although Lorimer had it on his own phone. Found these in the garden.
It was as if a clammy hand was clutching his heart, such was the feeling he had of imminent trouble. His policeman’s sixth sense? A forewarning of some sort? That chilling sensation that folk described as a goose walking over their grave. Lorimer
gripped the telephone tightly, steeling himself for what was to come.
‘Hi, big man, sorry to have to bother ye. It wis these funny wee glass things . . .’ Flynn’s Glasgow accent was laced with a note of contrition.
‘I saw them,’ Lorimer said. ‘Where did you find them exactly?’
‘Aye, well . . .’ Flynn hesitated, and Lorimer could imagine the young man’s awkward expression as he sought to find the right words to tell the policeman what he was beginning to guess.
‘See yon wee red-haired wumman that stayed wi’ youse?’
‘Mrs Gilmartin?’
‘Aye. Her. Well, wan day she wis oot doin’ stuff in the gairden an’ I seen her diggin’ a wee hole jist aboot where ah foon these glass thingmies.’
‘Are you saying you saw her bury them, Flynn?’ Lorimer’s voice was quiet.
‘Well, no’ exactly. Kind’ve. Like, she must’ve, eh? Ah mean, she didnae spend awfie long doin’ the weeds in that border, jist kneeled there an’ did a wee bit o’ diggin’.’
There was a silence for several moments as Lorimer digested the information.
‘Did you or did you not see her burying those glass phials?’
‘Och, no’ exactly. Like ah said, I saw her diggin’, but didnae see the wee glass . . . whatdye call them.’
‘Thanks, Flynn. Listen, son. Keep this to yourself for now, but it might come to the bit that I need you to make a statement.’
‘Whit? How?’ Flynn sounded wary. ‘Me? Give a statement?’
‘Only if it becomes necessary, Flynn,’ Lorimer soothed. ‘It may turn out to be nothing at all,’ he consoled the lad. But as he turned the three glass phials in his hand, the detective experienced the stomach-churning certainty that what Flynn had found was going to bring Vivien Gilmartin back up to Glasgow very soon indeed.
‘Are you sure?’ There had been the customary pause after Lorimer had spilled out the story to the psychologist, then that damning question.
‘Of course I’m not sure,’ he retorted. ‘If I was sure then I’d be going straight to Alistair Wilson and telling him to arrest her.’
Lorimer was standing at the large bay window in the professor’s room, gnawing at a raggle on his fingernail. Outside the day was bright, clouds scudding across the azure sky, a mild wind turning the silvery leaves of the trees along University Gardens. Rain would set in by tonight, he thought idly. And had it rained earlier today, perhaps Flynn would not have made the discovery that had prompted the policeman to come here to seek guidance from his friend.
A few students were hurrying along the avenue, no doubt thankful that the end of term was in sight, exams all but over for this academic year. How long ago had that been William Lorimer in their place? That year spent here, at one of the country’s oldest universities, had been happy, hadn’t it? In truth there was little he could recall about the day-to-day business of studying History of Art, but the general feeling he always had when walking through the cloisters, or even here in Solly’s department, was one of satisfaction that he had made a good choice. It had been youthful enthusiasm, much like his relationship with Foxy, that had led him to follow an academic path for a while.
Yet there was no regret in Lorimer’s mind at having spent time here as a student; on the contrary, this was where he had met his future wife. Some things were just meant, his mother-in-law used to say fondly.
And perhaps the gardener’s discovery was one of those things.
‘Motive, means and opportunity,’ Solly said suddenly, making the detective turn away from the window. ‘Isn’t that what you try to look for in a case like this?’
Lorimer blew out a sigh. ‘Usually, yes, but this is what makes it so difficult. The only motive anyone could come up with right now would be that she inherits his estate. His considerable estate,’ he added grimly. ‘As for means, well, the residue in those phials is being tested right now. If they should match the contents of Gilmartin’s stomach, well . . .’ He gave a meaningful shrug. ‘It’s the opportunity that baffles me, though. I was with Vivien Gilmartin for several hours that night and there were witnesses who could testify that she spent the best part of the day and the entire evening at the school.’
‘She came back to the flat to change her clothes?’
‘According to her statement.’
‘And the time of death is reckoned to be around nine or ten in the evening?’
Lorimer nodded.
‘I don’t normally turn in at that time on a Friday, do you?’ Solly asked, his bushy eyebrows rising as he posed the question.
‘No, but there was no reason why the man might not have felt tired . . .’ Lorimer tilted his head to one side, trying to see where Solly was going with this.
‘But sometimes, after Abby is asleep, we might go to bed . . .’ Solly’s eyes twinkled and his shy smile ended with a laugh. ‘You know . . .’
‘You think Gilmartin had bedded someone mid evening? While Vivien was out at the school reunion?’
‘Or had he gone to bed with his wife earlier? When she had come home to change her clothes? She would be taking off her day clothes, having a shower perhaps, then going back into that bedroom to slip into her good frock,’ Solly said, nodding as his eyes took on a distant look.
Lorimer listened to his friend, knowing that he was imagining the events in his mind as they might have unfolded.
‘And Gilmartin takes her to bed before she dresses, stays there after she’s gone.’
‘Vivien says he was out when she returned to the flat,’ Lorimer said slowly.
‘And the CCTV images from the nearest camera tell you that nobody walked away from the area around the flats.’
‘There is a back door. He could have left that way. Vivien says she went out that door to meet her taxi.’
‘Why would he use the back door?’ Solly shrugged. ‘It’s a short walk to the Citizens Theatre and back. No need for a cab. As far as we know, there is no reason for Gilmartin being clandestine about his movements. She may be lying about her husband being out when she returned to get changed.’
‘But if he were expecting someone that he didn’t want his wife to know about, they might arrive around the back of the building,’ Lorimer mused.
There was a silence as each man considered the possible scenario.
‘Why did she bury those bottles in your garden?’ Solly asked suddenly, fixing Lorimer with a stare.
‘You really think Vivien killed her own husband?’ Lorimer shook his head. ‘But it’s impossible. I was with her all through the evening.’
‘That seems to be the case,’ Solly replied slowly. ‘But nothing is ever as it seems when it comes to the taking of another person’s life. Pity about the bedclothes.’
‘What?’
‘The bedclothes,’ Solly repeated. ‘If that well-meaning policewoman hadn’t shoved them into the washer, then there might have been some trace evidence to show if Gilmartin had had sex that evening. And with whom. He wasn’t wearing pyjamas, was he?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘Not everyone does,’ he demurred. ‘I don’t.’
‘Ah, you hardy Scot!’ Solly joked. ‘I wonder if you would find any nightwear for Mr Gilmartin in among his belongings. Too late now, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘Everything was packed away and taken back down to London.’ He blinked, remembering the funeral and the crowd of people on that hilltop overlooking the city. ‘But I could still find out,’ he said.
‘By asking his wife?’ Solly’s eyebrows rose above his horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘No, actually. I was thinking of someone else,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Someone who would know about things like that.’
Alistair Wilson leaned across the desk. ‘Are you seriously thinking that your old girlfriend might have murdered her own husband?’
‘Apart from the impossibility of her actually administering the poison at the time when he was supposed to have died, yes, I have been considering that.’
; ‘Why would she?’ Wilson asked. ‘Didn’t she seem grief-stricken to you?’
Lorimer did not reply. That word again. Seem. How had she seemed? So many times they had seen outpourings of anguish in the wake of a domestic dispute that had ended in tragedy. Often the emotion was regret for a crime committed during a moment of passion or drunkenness; sometimes the tears expressed self-pity at being found out and charged with a capital offence. Had Foxy’s tears been real?
‘Perhaps,’ he said at last. ‘She is a trained actress, remember.’
Wilson nodded, then heaved a sigh.
‘What now?’ he asked at last.
‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ Lorimer told him.
Chapter Forty-Five
Odunlami Okonjo had expected to be taken from the cell in Stewart Street by van to some place like Her Majesty’s Barlinnie Prison, not bundled into the back of a sleek Mercedes with blacked-out windows. None of the men sitting beside him or up front had spoken a single word to him since the moment the cell doors had swung open and a uniformed officer had stood aside to let him leave. It had been done in the dark of night with nobody to see him being led away, hands still cuffed, out of the rear of the building where the car was waiting, its engine note barely discernible, a cat purring into the cold air.
It had been hours now since the car had taken the road south, and the miles of motorway had slipped easily under its tyres. The silence was beginning to unnerve the Nigerian, something that he guessed was designed to do just that. Still, he resisted the temptation to utter any words aloud. Let them tell him what was going on, he had snarled in his mind, flexing his strong hands as though reminding the muscles of what they were capable, given the chance.
This was not about McAlpin’s flats in Glasgow where he had set up several illegal immigrant girls. Nor was it about the bodies he and Boro had dumped out in that marshy pond at Cathkin. The Nigerian cursed McAlpin for choosing that particular place. He should have known better than to let his two different worlds collide; the big man had boasted about his legitimate involvement with the 2014 Games allowing him to see all the venues around the country, including the remote mountain-biking trail and the hidden valley with its nature reserve tucked out of sight. It was the perfect place to dispose of the bodies, he had told them.