by Alex Gray
The detective superintendent nodded at the officers assembled in the incident room. He had already reported back from his visit to the detention centre. ‘We know the girl’s identity tallies with that of the girl in Terry’s Tattoo Studio. Same false address. We do, however, have a lead on the pair of them after they left the hospital. CCTV footage shows them getting into a car, and we have a partial on the rear number plate.’
What Lorimer did not tell them was that Professor Brightman had been instrumental in directing them to the detention centre, his concern that there was a ring of child traffickers at work in the city something that the police already shared. Nor did the detective superintendent dwell overlong on the big white man whose arms were covered in green and blue Pictish shapes. Lorimer had been sworn to secrecy over the matter of the terrorist cell. But it was too much of a coincidence that the description that Connor Drummond had given him tallied with the one from the girl in the detention centre.
And William Lorimer was not given to a strong belief in coincidences.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Maggie opened the front door and bent down to retrieve the day’s mail. The ginger cat appeared at her side, rubbing his flank against her leg, the purring a welcome-home sound that immediately lifted her spirits. She breathed out a sigh, feeling her body relax. It had been a hard day waiting for her seniors to finish their exam, having them come into her classroom afterwards eager to share what they had written, eyes hopeful that they had chosen the best questions to answer. But it was over now and there would be other teachers marking their scripts, those external examiners who determined the fate of so many young folk. The rest of the term was not so difficult: the seniors were on exam leave until June, when the new timetable would kick in, and Maggie’s workload would be diminished till after the holidays.
She sat on the old rocking chair, opening the mail, casting aside the flyers to be recycled in the bin outside the back door, putting the bills into a neat pile. There was one stiff envelope that looked like a card. Maggie’s brow furrowed, puzzled for a moment. Neither she nor Bill had a birthday coming up, so what could this be?
She slit the envelope with her paper knife, a souvenir from one of their trips to Skye, the handle a slim greyish-green marble. The card portrayed a garden full of flowers, an empty deckchair in the centre, a discarded book on the grass.
Opening the card, Maggie’s eyes immediately fell on the signature. Vivien Gilmartin. Not just Vivien. It was a thank-you letter, then, Maggie supposed. And so it was.
Dear William and Maggie,
Now that I am back in my own home, I realise what an awful imposition I placed upon you both. Taking a virtual stranger into your lovely home was indeed an act of true kindness and for that I will always be grateful.
Nothing will ever be the same. You understand that, of course. However, life goes on and I am already planning to travel later in the year, when I shall take myself away from London and all its memories of Charles for a while.
I do so hope to see you at the funeral next week.
Until then, be assured of my continuing gratitude and friendship.
Your friend,
Vivien Gilmartin
Maggie bit her lip. It was a gracious letter, so like the woman who had penned it, dignified and with just enough warmth to evoke genuine sincerity. And the card had been carefully chosen. A picture to reflect the times Vivien had spent in their garden, nursing her sorrow.
Why then, Maggie asked herself, did she feel that prickle of unease? A suspicion that all was not as it should be? Bill was intending to go down for the funeral on his own. Days off were only given to school teachers for the funerals of family members. Was it because of that? Was she worried that there was something still between the red-haired woman and her husband? Some flicker of romance? There had been nothing to suggest it when Vivien had stayed here, or had there? That night when she had cried out and Bill had gone to reassure her… he had stayed in her room for such a long time…
Maggie shook herself. Silly woman, she thought. Overactive imagination. It was the end of a long day and tiredness was making her irrational, that was all.
She sank back into the cushions, the motion of the rocker making her sleepy, a yawn compounding the need to close her eyes and rest awhile. In moments she was asleep, the card slipping from her fingers and dropping silently to the floor.
Lorimer stood watching her sleep. There had been no answer to his usual call, I’m home, and he had crept quietly into the big room, guessing that Maggie might have dropped off to sleep as she sometimes did. It had been a tough time for her, hosting a guest like Vivien as well as having to return to the strictures of work. Looking down at her pale face, Lorimer saw the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the faint lines he’d never noticed before. He sighed. Always so busy, always off investigating some case or other, had he been too caught up in the world of policing to see the years take their toll on the woman he loved?
His eyes fell on the pile of mail and he stooped to pick it up, curious to know who had sent that fancy card. In moments he had read the words, taken in the sentiments expressed and nodded. Was it really a thank-you letter? Or a subtle reminder to come down to London? His mouth twitched suddenly as he smiled. Always suspicious, he told himself. Goes with the job, he thought. Yes, he told her mentally, I’ll be there at your husband’s funeral. But I won’t be coming alone.
Alistair Wilson stood at the counter, the black tie in his hands. Marks and Spencer had been the best bet, he thought. Any of those other fancy places would have cost a bomb down here. It had not been his intention to stay on for the funeral after his round of interviews with Gilmartin’s friends and colleagues, but Lorimer had insisted.
‘We’ll travel back together and you can fill me in on whatever’s come up,’ he’d told the acting DI. Wilson had agreed, then telephoned Betty to explain why he would be staying in the capital for another day and night.
London was hot for May. More like real summertime weather, a bit humid and sticky by late afternoon, the temperature rising far above the normal for this time of year, and well above anything he would expect back home in Scotland. As Wilson stepped out into the hot street with its stop-go traffic inching along, he sighed longingly for a West Coast breeze. His eyes craned along the line of cars, looking out for a black cab. That was one thing about London: there were always plenty of taxis. In less than a minute he had spotted one with its orange light blazing, given the cabby his destination and settled down to unwrap the tie.
Odd time to have a funeral, he’d told Lorimer. Five o’clock in the afternoon? But his senior officer had not given any reply to that.
The funeral cars would wind their way up this path, thought Lorimer as he walked up the slope towards the burial ground. He had not attended the church service, a notice in The Times informing the public that it was for family members only. Reaching the brow of the hill, he turned and looked back at the church, its grey spire and dark slate roof beneath him. How many mourners had gathered to comfort Vivien Gilmartin? he wondered. Her sister and her family from Canada, perhaps? She had told him that both their parents, like his, were dead. But maybe there were Fox cousins somewhere and a number of Gilmartins setting off in cars to make their way up here to the open grave where Charles Gilmartin was to be laid to rest.
It was a peaceful place to end life’s last journey, Lorimer decided, gazing around. There were no dark yews here, but a small copse of silver birches screened the back of the cemetery from the city beyond. Many of the graves were old and moss-covered, some leaning askew, battered by time and storms. In the distance he could see the gravediggers, one standing hand on his spade, the faint line of cigarette smoke barely discernible. The drone of a plane heading for one of the London airports made him look up; the silver-bodied craft shone like a strange fish in a sea of halcyon blue. It was still warm and Lorimer wished now that he had not worn this dark raincoat over his best suit. But it had been pouring when he had left the ho
use early this morning and he had grabbed it on the way out, overnight bag in hand. Here, high above the city, the air was fresher than it had been as he had emerged from Euston, plunging into the traffic fumes and rancid smells of grease from the snack bars.
His gaze fell on a figure approaching, labouring a little as he climbed the steep path towards him. He smiled, recognising the man’s familiar walk.
‘Whew, thought I’d never make it up that hill,’ Wilson said, puffing as he came to a halt. ‘Shouldn’t have paid the taxi off at the gates.’
‘You’re out of condition,’ Lorimer teased. ‘Need to send you out on foot patrol with that daughter of yours.’
‘Aye, well. Maybe I need to think about losing a bit of weight. Too many of Betty’s cakes,’ groaned Wilson, patting the stomach that bulged above his belt.
‘Nobody here yet, then,’ he added, turning to look down the hill at the view where Lorimer had been gazing.
‘Still in church,’ Lorimer said. ‘Oh, there’s a car coming up now. Let’s walk over a bit. Don’t want to be hanging around too close to the action.’
The two men strolled away from the edge of the path, making for a spot near enough the grave to hear the service but not so close as to be mistaken for family friends.
The cars began to arrive, slowly snaking up the hill and parking in a crescent below this level of the burial ground. It did not surprise the detective superintendent to see such crowds of dark-clad men and women emerging into the sunlight; Charles Gilmartin had been a well-known figure in theatrical circles and there would be many here from that world to pay their last respects.
There were taxis too, disgorging the mourners one by one then heading back along the path and disappearing over the crest of the hill. Soon the grassy slopes were full of people standing around, casting their eyes towards the ribbon of pathway, waiting for the arrival of the hearse. Most people seemed to have gravitated towards friends or acquaintances, but there was one elderly lady standing on her own, clutching a large handbag with both hands, her felt hat jammed on top of tight white curls that looked newly permed. She appeared lost amongst the smartly dressed men and women, some of whose faces Lorimer recognised from television but whose names he had forgotten. As he watched, he could see her hand searching inside the cavernous bag to find a small, lace-trimmed handkerchief. After blowing her nose, the old lady wiped a hand across her eyes, the crumpled hanky stuffed into her coat pocket.
Nudging Wilson, Lorimer tilted his head, indicating the woman, and began to walk towards her.
‘Couldn’t help seeing you were on your own, ma’am,’ he began. ‘Do you mind if we stand with you?’
‘Oh.’ The woman looked up at him. ‘You must be one of Mrs Gilly’s friends from Scotland.’
‘That’s right,’ Lorimer replied. ‘We go way back,’ he said, glancing at Wilson as though to include him in the reply.
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Specially seeing that sister of hers didn’t make it over from Canada after all. Not a lot of folks here from Mrs Gilly’s side. Mind you,’ she leaned in towards them, one hand against her mouth as though to impart a confidence, ‘s’pose I’m really from both sides, ain’t I?’ She stuck out one gloved hand. ‘Mrs Porter, bin cleaning for the Gillys for years, I ’ave. How d’ye do?’
Lorimer and Wilson shook her hand in turn, murmuring their names but not their respective ranks within Police Scotland.
Just then a silence fell as everyone turned to see the big funeral cars arrive and park near the graveside. Lorimer stood beside the little cleaner, watching as she pulled another handkerchief from her bag to dab at her eyes. Then he held his breath as a slim figure emerged from the large silvery-grey Daimler.
Vivien was not alone, a younger man in a dark suit by her side, his hand slipped under the crook of her elbow, ushering her towards the grave, a priest following them at a respectful distance.
‘That’s Martin Goodfellow, Gilmartin’s assistant,’ Wilson whispered. ‘Saw him yesterday. Tell you about it later,’ he said quietly, a meaningful glance catching the detective superintendent’s eyes.
As the pallbearers carried the coffin from the hearse, the crowd moved slowly forward, feet silent on the cropped turf, no jostling for position, most keeping a discreet distance from the edge of the open grave.
At first Lorimer heard the priest’s words as a background monotone, so intent was he on looking at Vivien Gilmartin. The widow’s face was partly hidden beneath a black veil attached to her hat, red hair tamed into a simple knot, emphasising that long, slender neck. She stood, head bowed, as the priest intoned the familiar words: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. What was she thinking? Lorimer wondered. Was she remembering better times with her husband? Hoping that he was dwelling in the sort of afterlife that the man of God asserted was waiting for the deceased? Or was she simply numb, seeing the reality of death here in this place, the scent of newly mown grass and singing birds somehow at odds with the darkness engulfing her.
She was more of a stranger to him than ever, he realised. London was her home, her real home, this huge city with all these people around who were, he supposed, her friends. Was he here because of an earlier friendship? First love was the sweetest, she had told him that night as they had sat together on the playground bench. But Lorimer knew he would not have made the journey south just to give this woman moral support. He was here, he reminded himself, because the man being lowered into the ground had been murdered. And it was the job of his fellow officers to find out who had committed that crime.
‘Can we get you a taxi, Mrs Porter?’ Wilson asked.
‘Oh, thanks, dearie. Will we travel all together then?’ the old lady asked brightly. Now that the service was over and everyone was making their way back along the path, she seemed a lot less tearful.
Vivien had not spoken individually to the mourners; it fell to the priest to invite them back to a city hotel for a refreshment, as he put it. She had turned away, head bowed, acknowledging no one before slipping back into the big car.
The old lady tucked her hand into Lorimer’s arm as the three made their way back down to the gates of the cemetery and the busy main road.
‘Nice place, this,’ she began. ‘My Albert’s buried just along there.’ She pointed with one gloved finger at a row of gravestones curving on a lower terrace. ‘Been dead and gone these twenty-eight years, ’e ’as,’ she continued. ‘Bad ’eart. Ran in the family.’ She nodded. ‘Lovely wake we had, best night in years. Pity ’e ’ad to miss it,’ she chuckled.
Lorimer stifled a laugh. He had taken a sudden liking to this garrulous old lady.
‘You don’t still clean for Vivien, I suppose?’
‘Mrs Gilly? Course I do, dearie! What would she do without old Porter, eh? And I can always do with the cash, can’t I? Not so easy making do with the pension these days, eh?’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Always paid me, even when they were away. Got a lot done when they were up in Glasgow. Bad place, that!’ she added with a scowl. ‘Poor man, dying in his bed. Poisoned!’ she added darkly. ‘Did you know that, dearie?’
They were saved from replying by Wilson stepping out into the road, hand raised to hail a cab.
‘Oh, that’s better. Fair takes it out of these old legs of mine, that slope does. Always worse coming down than going up, don’t you find?’ Mrs Porter declared, settling back in her seat.
‘Now then, tell me all about yourselves, dearies. Which part of Scotland do you both come from?’
Lorimer gave a discreet nod to Wilson, who launched into a glowing description of his home in West Kilbride and the views across the water. Mrs Porter nodded politely, and when Wilson paused, Lorimer broke in.
‘What about yourself, Mrs Porter. Known the Gilmartins long, have you?’
‘Oh yes.’ The old lady smiled. ‘Knew him when he was a boy, I did. Cleaned for his mother when they lived in that big house of theirs in Kensington.’ Her face fell suddenly. ‘Poor old soul. Was in a nursing home i
n her latter days, she was. Left everything to Charles, you know,’ she confided, leaning towards the police officers as though to keep a secret. ‘A fortune. Old man Gilmartin made millions in that cigarette factory of his back in the fifties. Course, everyone smoked then, didn’t they? All lung cancer and outside the pubs nowadays, ain’t it?’
‘I suppose Mrs Gilmartin inherits his estate?’ Lorimer asked, his tone as diffident as he could make it.
‘Don’t know about that, dearie. Charles had put a lot o’ money into them theatricals, hadn’t he? But yes, she’ll get what’s left over. Tidy bit, I shouldn’t wonder, seeing as they had no kids.’ She sniffed, then looked at the two policemen.
‘You got kids, dearie?’
Once more Wilson came to Lorimer’s rescue, giving an account of Kirsty’s childhood and entry to the hospitality management course at university. He made no mention, however, of her dropping out of the course and joining Police Scotland.
‘Good fer her!’ Mrs Porter declared. ‘Always stand a gel in good stead when she gets wed, eh?’ She dropped a wink, then looked out of the window as the taxi slowed down and stopped outside the entrance to one of London’s most famous hotels. ‘Oh my, our Vivi’s pushin’ the boat out!’ the old woman said, a smile of satisfaction on her plump face as she allowed a liveried doorman to help her out of the cab.
Lorimer followed Wilson and the old lady into the foyer of the hotel, casting his eyes around in appreciation. The expanse of marble floor might have given the place a feeling of chilliness, but that was offset by the magnificent gold and green drapes held back at each long window by tasselled cords, the sparkle of crystals from the many chandeliers above their heads and several enormous arrangements of flowers spilling exotic blooms over the lips of their urns. There had been a notice on a board in the hotel foyer discreetly informing visitors to the hotel (in gold lettering) where the Gilmartin wake would take place, but that really wasn’t needed, thought Lorimer as they walked in behind a crowd of black-clad figures. Some of the women, he noticed, had opted for a clutch of feathers pinned artfully to their hair; others wore more conventional hats, but each of them appeared effortlessly stylish, apart from the homely little woman who now hovered uncertainly by his side.