Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  ‘Shush, now. No trying to talk. The speech therapist will give me what for if I let you make even a peep!’ The girl gave a conspiratorial grin and Alice felt her body relax. It was all right not to speak, then.

  Her voice sometimes let her down completely without any warning. Why did that happen? Alice had the sensation of her mind clearing as she considered this. Was it the rush of emotion that stifled her voice’s ability to make coherent sounds? Perhaps. She swallowed hard, hoping that the errant vocal chords would appreciate some fresh saliva and begin to work properly again.

  ‘Now, let’s see what you can do.’ The young girl was reaching under her pillow, easing her up into a sitting position.

  Alice Finlay let herself be manoeuvred by the firm hands, aware that she was as helpless to resist now as she had been as a little child all those years ago in that department store.

  It was better to go on foot for the first few days. That way much more could be observed. Cycling meant that things zipped past too quickly, and facts had to be absorbed if I were to make sense of the place and the person. So I walked across the muddy path, hood over my face against the February cold, hunched up under layers of clothing that were as much for disguise as for keeping out the chill. The corner house had been my first choice and when the woman closed her gate and headed off towards the flyover that crossed the main road to the shops, I slowed my step, following her at a distance. She was small and walked with a jerky step as if she had a pain of some sort. A recent hip replacement, maybe? It was pension day and some of the old people still trotted down to the post office every week rather than have their money paid directly into their bank accounts. Old habits died hard, I told myself. And perhaps this indicated that the old dear was a good age. I narrowed my eyes against a sudden gust of easterly wind, watching the woman stagger as it caught her. The older they were the weaker they became, I told myself; and all the more reason why they should be dispatched.

  Freda hobbled down to the end of the slope. There was a huge, dirty puddle right at the bottom where the ground needed filling in by the council, but it had been there for so long now that she doubted whether it would ever be mended. She’d just have to take an extra big step across it; that was all. Her fingers trembled as she shifted the shopping bag from one arm to the other, reaching out for the metal railing. It might only be a few steps from the flyover to the entrance to the post office, but there was a broken bit of pavement to negotiate as well as these horrible self-opening doors that swung outwards at her.

  Freda was aware of every potential hazard since her last fall. It had been such a simple thing, just missing her footing at the edge of the pavement then down she’d gone, breaking her leg as she’d crashed on to the hard concrete. There had been so many accidents lately involving older people. Like that one along from Jess Innes. No, Freda stopped in the middle of the street, pondering for a moment. Two had died. That was right. Two elderly ladies had fallen down their back steps not all that long ago. Terrible thing to have happened. Tommy next door had been on to the council to have rails put in at the back and front doors, but so far nothing had happened. You had to be on the social to get anything these days, Freda remembered him saying in that puffed-out exasperated way that he had, like a wee fighting cock. And it was true enough, she thought, stepping back to let the doors open fully before she entered the brightness and warmth of the grocery-shop-cum-post-office.

  There was the usual queue of folk waiting for their turn at the counter and Freda turned to see if there was anyone she knew; having a wee blether with one of her friends would pass the time. But there was nobody, just a tall man stooping over the newspapers as if he couldn’t decide which one he wanted, and a couple of other folk by the display of greeting cards. Freda sighed. She’d go across to the Spar and buy a few things, just enough to tide her over the weekend. And maybe a quarter pound of mince from the butcher’s. A shepherd’s pie would last her at least two meals, wouldn’t it?

  As Freda Gilmour left the post office she had no sensation of being followed. No extra sensory element within alerted her to the eyes that watched her every faltering step, nor did she feel the weight of malice that had begun to bear down upon her small, slight person.

  CHAPTER 20

  Lorimer had not forgotten Colin Ray’s words, nor was he particularly afraid of pushing this investigation into the delicate area of internal police matters. But other aspects of the case had taken up his time and it was only today, at the start of this new week, that his thoughts turned to the Chief Constable of Strathclyde. Sir Robert Caldwell, the previous Chief Constable who Lorimer had respected and liked, had retired to his holiday home in Bute and the present head of their force was someone he knew less well. David Isherwood was a man in his late forties who had come to them from the Grampian Region. Whether he missed the cold easterly winds or not, Lorimer couldn’t say, but Isherwood’s choice of home had been the village of Kilmacolm, a place that seemed to have its own particular climate. Every wintry spell appeared to be more biting up there than in other villages; even the annual rainfall was greater, according to the officers who knew the area.

  Oddly enough, the fact that Isherwood lived in Kilmacolm was one thing about the Chief Constable that Ray had forgotten to tell Lorimer, and Lorimer felt curious about the omission. Had Ray still been reticent about his anxiety to follow the Chief Constable’s advice? Or was there more to it? Perhaps, Lorimer told himself, putting pressure on Ray had been no more than a desire on the part of the recently-promoted Isherwood to keep his own name out of the newspapers. Being a resident of the same village where a major crime had taken place could have unpleasant repercussions. But Lorimer wondered if it was more than that. Colin Ray had given him the impression that he had been warned off investigating any of Sir Ian Jackson’s known associates. Now, what had made Isherwood issue such a directive? Perhaps, thought Lorimer, looking at the grey skies over Greenock Harbour, today was a day to find that out. His appointment with Isherwood was at eleven o’clock. A wee trip back up the M8 to Glasgow would suit him just fine.

  It was not long before the river became a haze of grey with dim shapes of cranes obscuring the horizon, the motorway eventually swinging across from south to north and into the heart of the city. Lorimer noted the massive changes that had been wrought in Glasgow’s topography in recent years. Now more bridges than ever criss-crossed the dark waters in an attempt to stem the tide of traffic that flowed across the M8’s Kingston Bridge. The Clyde Arc (nicknamed the ‘Squinty Bridge’ by locals) served the area between Govan, where the television studios had made their home among rows of designer flats, and Finnieston with the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre on its doorstep. A new footbridge had also been built on the site of a former chandlery between Broomielaw and the Quay, allowing a passage from the newer homes bordering the south shore to the older part of the city. But some things never changed, Lorimer thought, glancing at some familiar shapes on the skyline. Glasgow University still dominated the cityscape, its peculiar spiked tower piercing the skies, reminding Lorimer of the path he might have taken had he remained a student of Art History.

  The road swept round in a curve, taking him along Bothwell Street. He was almost home, he thought, surprised at the notion. He gave a wry grin at his reflection in the driving mirror. That was almost true. After all, hadn’t he spent more time in A Division than anywhere else in his career? And he missed the place and the people there, he suddenly realised. It was unusual for a police officer to be in one Division for so long, and perhaps this secondment would take him away from his Glasgow base for good. If full promotion to Detective Superintendent were to take place, he’d have very little option but to go where he was sent. He’d miss them, though, these people who had become his friends — like Detective Sergeant Alistair Wilson and even the wee woman in the canteen, Sadie Dunlop, whose politically incorrect remarks were dished up to every officer regardless of their rank.

  He parked the car on a hill and walked
along to Pitt Street, pulling his coat collar up against a blustery wind that was sweeping in from the east. The red brick building dominated the corner of the block as well it might. Strathclyde Police Headquarters housed much of the expertise that was used in the detection of major crimes, as well as the most senior officers who administered the various departments. As he entered the building, the first hailstones began to fall, pattering icy bullets on the dry pavement.

  Giving a nod to the commissionaire, Lorimer headed for the stairs and the office that David Isherwood presently called home.

  It had been a little while since Lorimer’s previous visit, when he had held a press conference down in the assembly hall. That was the area most usually recognised by the public on television during serious cases, the prominent thistle badge on the wall always reminding the viewer of the Force’s duty towards them. Lorimer’s invitations to see the Chief Constable had been far less frequent than those from other colleagues in Pitt Street wanting his input into various cases of vicious crime.

  David Isherwood was a man of middle height, broad-shouldered with a large, square-shaped head that had required Strathclyde’s uniform department to find a way of creating an outsized hat that would fit their new Chief Constable. It lay on his desk now, its silver braid gleaming in the cold afternoon light that slanted from the window behind him. As Lorimer entered the room, Isherwood stood up, came around from behind his desk and on two swift strides was clasping his visitor’s hand, a quick up and down.

  ‘Take a seat, Lorimer.’ Isherwood gestured to the pair of comfortable chairs placed to one side of the room, a small wooden coffee table between them. ‘How are things progressing down at K Division?’ he asked, without any preamble.

  Lorimer nodded. This was one of the busiest men in the Force so there would be no messing about or wasting precious time in discussing niceties.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, sir. I want to know why DCI Ray was warned off investigating certain areas of Sir Ian Jackson’s life.’

  Isherwood’s grey eyes widened and he leaned forwards, his two meaty hands grasping each kneecap. ‘Warned off? By whom?’ he asked in a tone at once aggressive and blustering.

  ‘Yourself, sir,’ Lorimer replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the Chief Constable’s face. He would not let the man go from his penetrating stare, a technique that he was well used to employing during difficult interrogations. But an experienced officer like Isherwood surely knew all of these tricks and more besides, Lorimer thought. Nevertheless, he continued to keep his eyes focused on the man as he spoke again.

  ‘It appears to me that there was an attempt to divert attention away from Sir Ian’s home and business life.’ He spoke the words slowly and quietly, watching as Isherwood’s jaw hardened and a faint flush of dark red crept over his spade-shaped chin. ‘And I would like to know why,’ he added.

  For a long moment the two men stared at one another, then Isherwood dropped his gaze and gave a short sigh.

  ‘Do you know, Chief Inspector,’ he said, examining his hands as he spoke, ‘I have never come across an officer who has questioned me like this before.’ His eyes flicked back to meet Lorimer’s and there was a different quality in them, something akin to a slow, smouldering anger. ‘My motivation in directing Ray to a particular area of inquiry was perfectly in order and you have no business coming here asking questions like that!’

  ‘Perhaps living in Kilmacolm, so close to the scene of the crime, has something to do with it?’ Lorimer suggested, his hands clasped loosely on his lap, his expression both calm and unruffled.

  ‘Preposterous! What gives you that notion?’ Isherwood thumped the arm of his chair.

  ‘There must be some reason that you told Colin Ray to stay away from certain areas of Jackson’s life, sir,’ Lorimer continued, knowing that his reasonable tone was probably infuriating the Chief Constable.

  ‘And I suppose you have begun to poke around in these areas, as you call them!’

  ‘I’m sorry if this sounds offensive, sir, but I have to remind you that I was appointed by the Procurator Fiscal to undertake this review,’ Lorimer told him quietly. ‘And since I have been attempting to fulfil that objective I have to tell you that the inquiry has taken on some more serious dimensions. The forensic evidence now suggests that whoever began the fire may have had access to the interior of the house. A deliberate step like that was not what I would call a random act of vandalism.’

  Isherwood sat back, his hand rubbing his chin. And for a long moment he seemed to consider Lorimer’s words. Then, clearing his throat, he began, ‘I think, Detective Superintendent, that you must do what you think best in this case. But remember, Sir Ian was a well respected member of the community and it would not be to anyone’s benefit to have his name sullied in any way.’

  ‘You mean by revealing his overseas connections?’

  ‘Precisely. Nobody is very sure just what these involved. Tax evasion, possibly. But that was a long time ago and what the man achieved for society more than made up for any irregularities.’

  ‘So you want me to brush anything dirty under the carpet? Is that it?’

  ‘I want you to do what you are told to do!’ Isherwood roared suddenly. ‘And without casting any aspersions in the direction of this office! Find out who began that fire but don’t drag the good name of Ian Jackson through the mud in the process, is that clear?’

  He stood up, obviously considering the meeting at an end. This time there was no handshake. The scowl on his face as he thrust open the door might have deterred a lesser mortal, but Lorimer nodded politely and checked a small salute before turning to leave.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘ Well, what of it?’ The tall, blonde policewoman looked down at DC Kate Clark, one hand on her hip.

  ‘I thought you’d be able to help!’ Kate protested. ‘You have got some inside knowledge about that sort of stuff,’ she raged, adding, ‘Ma’am,’ as Rhoda Martin’s eyebrow rose menacingly. It didn’t do to forget who was boss around here when Lorimer wasn’t around, the DI’s expression seemed to be reminding her.

  ‘So?’ Rhoda Martin countered. ‘Everyone knows I’m a cyclist. I just don’t see what being in the cycle club has to do with the investigation. After all, the only thing our witness can tell us is that it was a bloke riding without any lights on.’

  ‘He thought the cycle was silver,’ Kate mumbled.

  ‘Ha! If I had a pound for every silver cycle in the district I’d be retiring next week!’ Martin snorted. ‘Come on, Kate. I mean, there’s not a shred of evidence to go on, is there?’

  The DI’s derisive tone made Kate Clark seethe inwardly. Lorimer doesn’t think that, she wanted to tell the woman but mentioning the Super’s name was like a red rag to a bull these days. Kate was ready to bet that Rhoda Martin hadn’t managed to charm the pants off this particular officer. Lorimer had more sense than to fall for the DI’s usual tricks, she thought, remembering his keen blue eyes appraising each one of them during recent meetings.

  ‘What about the other folk in your cycle club? Would any of them have been up there at that time of night?’

  For a moment DI Martin’s face became thoughtful. Kate waited, wondering what her colleague was going to say. But then the woman shook her head and gave a shrug as if to dismiss whatever idea had occurred to her.

  ‘Is the son still bothering you?’ she asked instead.

  ‘You mean Gary Wilson? The man whose old mum died?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Yes. All that stuff about a stalker seems a bit like clutching at straws to me. Okay, you have to feel for the guy, but don’t let yourself get too involved. It’s a matter for family liaison to deal with, DC Clark. It’s not your job to mop up Mr Wilson’s tears. Besides, I’d have thought you had other more pressing things on your mind these days,’ she smirked, her green eyes flashing with mirth as she pointed to Kate’s belly.

  Kate gave a half-smile in return, her hand moving instinctively to the swelling bump as sh
e felt the baby kick. The DI was right enough, she supposed. Becoming too involved with the victim’s family was a bad idea. And she didn’t have all that long to go now until her maternity leave. Maybe this cyclist thing was just a bizarre coincidence. Loads of people rode bikes, after all, and maybe the bloke in Kilmacolm had simply forgotten to switch on his lights that night.

  But as she walked back to her desk, something was niggling at the back of her mind. What had Rhoda Martin been thinking about just then? It was typical of the woman not to share her ideas with the rest of them. DI Martin was the type who would work on her own if she could, just to show them all what a great cop she was. Maybe that private school education had instilled the competitive spirit into her, Kate thought. Then the telephone rang, dispelling any further consideration of the incident.

  Tommy Rankin stopped by his gate, puffing as he heaved the last of the bags of groceries on to the path. He was getting too old for this. But his pride wouldn’t let him ask that son-in-law of theirs for help. So long as he could walk across to the shops, he’d continue to bring home all the things on Maureen’s list. The old man pushed the gate, fiddling with the catch to make sure it was secure. Maureen had kept him awake half the night moaning about the gate banging in the wind. He was sure he’d closed it last night. Maybe it was Freda-next-door’s? He was about to pick up the bags of groceries when his eye was caught by a bundle of rubbish left at the foot of his neighbour’s steps. What on earth had Freda left out?

  But as he bent to retrieve the bulging plastic bags, Tommy Rankin froze. A gust of wind had caught the edge of the heap lying on his neighbour’s path, revealing the sole of a small black shoe.