The Bird That Did Not Sing

by Alex Gray

  If he was being entirely honest, Cameron was beginning to find these meetings a little tedious, and the idea that such a disparate group of men could wreak their planned havoc on the enormity of the Commonwealth Games no longer appeared to be feasible. Perhaps it was the rhetoric: the constant affirmation of why they were plotting to blow up the stadium hosting the opening ceremony. Cameron had been as enthusiastic as the rest of them to begin with, brought up as he had been by parents fervent about the need for independence. And now this nondescript man was ambling by his side talking about how nice the weather had been for the time of year!

  ‘Ever been on the boating pond?’ the leader asked suddenly as they rounded a corner.

  ‘Never been in this park before,’ Cameron mumbled, kicking a stone in his path and watching it skitter along the edge of the little lake.

  ‘Come on then.’ The leader was grinning like any schoolboy off on a jaunt, and before he knew it, Cameron was sitting in the stern of a small rowing boat while the man heaved on the oars, slicing through the oily waters. As the shoreline receded, Cameron could see that they were quite alone on this circle of water, the rest of the flotilla of little boats bobbing together at the quayside.

  They were nearing an island covered with thick shrubbery when the man drew in the oars and let the boat float along.

  ‘I’ve never really introduced myself,’ he began, holding out his hand. ‘Robert Bruce Petrie,’ he said. ‘And you are Cameron Gregson.’ He smiled warmly, as though this was the most natural thing in the world rather than a breach of what he had insisted was necessary security. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’ve always found given names a bit of a bore. Or maybe it was the expensive education.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘Anyway, please just call me Petrie.’

  Cameron felt the clamminess of the man’s hand slip out of his own and then they were off again, oars cutting through the silky water as he ducked under an overhanging branch.

  ‘How did you know my…’

  ‘Name? Oh, I know everything about you, my friend.’ Petrie’s smile never faltered. ‘Did you think we met by sheer chance?’ He gave a laugh that was pure merriment. ‘Oh my goodness, you must have thought us a bunch of amateurs! No, Gregson, you were selected long before that day in the Botanic Gardens.’

  Cameron blinked as though he had been struck, yet he was intrigued to hear more from the man who was pulling on these oars as though it was something he did every day of his life.

  ‘We only took the best.’ Petrie nodded, looking over his shoulder at the island, keeping a safe distance from the bank. ‘Number Three and I,’ he went on. ‘I am not about to give you anyone else’s name, though,’ he warned, the smile fading a little.

  ‘How did you know about the car following Number Two?’ Cameron asked.

  ‘We have our own ways of finding things out, just as they do,’ Petrie replied enigmatically.

  ‘They?’

  ‘The police. MI6. The security forces are on high alert because they have wind of something.’

  ‘You mean they know about us?’ Cameron was horrified.

  ‘Of course they don’t know too many details. And,’ his smile was warm once again, ‘they certainly don’t know about you. Which is why I am giving you this very special task.’

  The rest of the boat trip passed in a blur as Cameron listened to what he had to do. It seemed at first that it was completely innocuous: taking care of a couple of elderly Australians and making sure that they enjoyed the Clan Gathering in Stirling before accompanying them to a Glasgow hotel and being their constant companion right up until the moment when they arrived at Parkhead Stadium for the opening ceremony of the 2014 Commonwealth Games. Then there was the matter of the sgian dubh.

  He had been quite aware of the white-haired explosive expert’s part in all of this, but until this moment Cameron Gregson had not known exactly what role the two Australians were to play in the attack. And as he listened to Petrie’s instructions, he was uncertain whether the chill that ran through his blood was excitement or fear.

  The journey back through Perthshire had exceeded all of their expectations, and now they were seated outside a country pub, enjoying a freshly made salad sandwich and a glass of the local beer. Peter MacGregor gave a sigh that summed up his feelings completely. It was indeed the trip of a lifetime and they had been extra lucky with the continuing fine weather. Almost every day on the Isle of Skye had allowed them to see the towering mountains, their view disappearing only once behind a bank of low-lying mist. But even that had its own romance, the swirling white clouds doing nothing to dampen their appreciation of the landscape and the shifting patterns around the coastline. There had been sheep everywhere, this season’s growing lambs baaing at their heels whenever the car slowed down to allow them to cross from one nibbled verge to the other.

  The land had become gentler as Peter and Joanne had travelled south, though some of the places still held a fascination for the amateur historian: Sheriffmuir looked bleak even on a sunny day, the watery sound of curlews drifting over the fields as they had stopped at the roadside to gaze at a place where so much had happened in times gone by.

  Peter stretched out a hand and gave his wife’s fingers a friendly squeeze. ‘Stirling tonight, girl,’ he remarked. ‘Plenty to see in that old town.’

  Joanne smiled back. ‘It’s a city now, though,’ she remarked. ‘Says so in the travel guide.’

  ‘That right?’ Peter raised his bushy eyebrows, his eyes crinkling up at the corners as he returned her smile. Then a familiar ringtone made him twist around.

  ‘Wait up,’ he said, shifting in his seat to pull out the phone from his trouser pocket. He raised the mobile to his ear and turned away from this village street where traffic lumbered slowly along.

  Joanne watched as her husband nodded. There was no sign of recognition on his face, so the call was not from home. Nor was there a crease of anxiety between Peter’s brows, nothing to cause her any alarm, simply a routine call of some sort.

  ‘Okay. Pleased to speak to you, son,’ MacGregor said, then paused to listen to the response. At last he clicked the phone shut and turned back to his wife.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The guy who was to meet us has to go into hospital for an operation, poor sod. That was his replacement. Sounds a decent sort. Young.’

  ‘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 pick-up 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 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?’