Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  ‘There’s something else, ma’am’. A voice from the back of the room made Kate turn around. ‘McGroary was employed as a gardener at Jackson Tannock Technologies last year. Got thrown out by Sir Ian. Just a week or so before the fire.’

  ‘And why was that?’ Martin asked.

  ‘He was caught taking a piss behind the technology buildings. Didn’t know he was being seen by a room full of Japanese visitors to the plant!’

  ‘And when did this come to light?’ DI Martin stared hard at the crime scene manager, intent on ignoring the guffaws of laughter breaking out around the room.

  ‘McGroary told us, ma’am,’ Wainwright supplied before the other officer could add any more. ‘Said he’d been looking for gardening work in the local area ever since. Seemed he’d done a leaflet drop round the houses in his own patch.’

  ‘Better than a trouser drop,’ another voice sniggered.

  ‘Do we have a list of the addresses he visited?’ DI Martin cut across the undercurrent of noise.

  Wainwright smiled a slow smile as if he had kept the best till last. ‘It’s all there ma’am,’ he said, indicating the papers in her hand. ‘ And they include all the homes of the ladies who were killed,’ he told her.

  ‘Right. That’s as much as we need. Get forensics on to that bicycle as soon as Dodgson comes back with it. And I want McGroary brought in for questioning. Now. And you can all forget about going home for the next few hours. I want this cleared up tonight.’

  Kate closed the door of the cubicle behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. She was in and out of the loo so often these days that nobody gave it a second thought. It was, she thought, one of the few places where she could telephone him in private.

  She let it ring out then, just as she began to expect the voicemail to begin its spiel, Lorimer’s familiar tones echoed in her ear.

  ‘It’s me; Kate. Listen. There’s been a development in the latest case. A known offender, name of Davie McGroary, lives in the same estate as the three old ladies. And,’ she paused for breath, ‘he worked for Jackson Tannock as a landscape gardener. Now here’s the good bit. McGroary was slung out on his ear a few days before the fire. And guess who did the slinging?’ She nodded, listening to his reply. ‘Aye, spot on. Sir Ian himself. Now is that maybe something to consider? Maybe not enough to give you a motive but he was surely going to bear a grudge.’

  When Kate heard the sound of the main toilet doors being opened she flushed the WC letting Lorimer know where she was. GOT TO GO SPK LATR, she texted, then clicked shut her phone.

  Rhoda Martin barely glanced at Kate as she pushed open the door of an adjacent cubicle. The Detective Constable breathed a sigh of relief as she waddled over to the line of hand basins. Well, at least she’d contacted Lorimer to let him know. Nobody in the incident room had mentioned the review case or the Jackson fire and it was as if Lorimer had ceased to exist now that Rhoda Martin had her teeth into a murder case of her own.

  Running her hands under the warm tap, Kate gave a groan. It was all very well pretending to use the loo, but Sod’s Law being what it was, she really did need to go now. And for a fleeting moment she could even feel some sympathy for Davie McGroary.

  The thought was quickly dismissed as she remembered the mean-faced drug dealer, that foul-mouthed girlfriend always in his wake. She’d seen them in here on previous occasions. Had he really killed those old ladies? Kate frowned suddenly, considering. Why would McGroary do something like that?

  CHAPTER 23

  The golf club in Kilmacolm was situated at the end of a winding road, high above the village, tucked tidily away from any passing traffic. Lorimer had driven up from Greenock with more hope than expectation that he might come across some background information relating to Sir Ian and Lady Jackson. His first instinct had been to revisit the burnt out mansion house and for a while he had wandered around the area, seeking something that might spark off an idea. Kate’s call had come as he had just arrived back at the car and for a moment he had been tempted to turn around and head back to Greenock. If DI Martin wanted him to sit in on an interview with McGroary then surely she would be the one to call him, Lorimer told himself. And there was no way he’d want to cause Kate Clark any trouble for calling him with the news. So, as the afternoon light faded from a sky that was threatening snow, Lorimer kept to his original plan and headed towards the golf club. If this had been the place they’d come for recreation then, he reasoned, perhaps somebody here could paint personal colour and detail into what was a very sketchy outline of the famous philanthropist and his socialite wife.

  The clubhouse was more like a country cottage from a bygone age, its creamy walls and low roof set against acres of neatly clipped grass. Lorimer parked the car and walked towards the entrance at the side, then pressed the bell. A call to the golf club secretary had been made, the man had apologised, he would be unable to see Detective Superintendent Lorimer this evening. Nonethless, he had decided to call in. From past experience he knew that an unexpected visit could produce more than one where answers had been carefully prepared. And surely there would be somebody here who could tell him things about the Jacksons? He stood for a moment, waiting to be admitted, then turned to look out at the buildings beyond the car park. A modern bungalow lay back from the main drive and, to its left, a collection of huts painted dark green that might belong to the resident groundsman. Trees surrounded much of the perimeter, one narrow path snaking behind them into thicker woodland.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ The drawling tone made Lorimer spin around to see a tall, angular-looking woman of indeterminate age dressed in matching heather-coloured Argyll-check sweater and slacks. She was, Lorimer decided, almost a caricature of the lady golfer. But there was nothing superficial about the steely gaze she had turned upon this visitor to Kilmacolm Golf Club.

  ‘DCI Lorimer,’ he said, producing his warrant card that still bore that rank. Explaining his designation as an acting Superintendent just wasn’t worth the hassle.

  ‘Monica Hutcheson,’ the lady golfer offered with a nod, eyeing his card with a suspicious look. Yet she stood aside to let him enter, holding the door then closing it firmly behind him.

  She did not extend her hand, Lorimer noticed. After all, he reminded himself, Isherwood was probably a member here as well. Perhaps a visit from a mere DCI was simply not enough to merit that.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of two of your former members, Sir Ian and Lady Pauline,’ he continued, watching the woman’s carefully pencilled eyebrows rise as he mentioned the Jacksons’ names.

  ‘Gracious,’ the woman murmured. ‘What a horrible thing that was,’ she added as if it were a gross breach of manners to say more.

  ‘I was hoping’, Lorimer went on, ‘to speak to some of their friends.’

  ‘Whatever for? Haven’t we all been upset enough?’ The woman’s outrage was palpable. But before Monica Hutcheson could continue, a door behind the main reception desk opened and a short, grey-haired woman emerged.

  ‘Oh, Mrs H. Sorry, didn’t know you had company,’ the woman began in an accent that Lorimer recognised as pure Glaswegian.

  ‘Betty.’ Monica Hutcheson’s mouth curved in a wide smile that failed to reach her eyes. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking DCI Lorimer into the lounge. I’m sure you can fill him in with anything he wants to ask about the Jacksons.’ And with that she sketched a tiny wave and headed towards the ladies’ locker room.

  Lorimer glanced around him, noting a darkened room to one side and the doors leading off this reception area. A board directly ahead of him bore the words KILMACOLM GOLF CLUB WELCOMES… but who or what was welcomed had been left blank. It certainly didn’t feel as if it was DCI William Lorimer.

  The woman called Betty stood where she was, her bird-like head to one side. ‘You’re Lorimer?’ she asked, crinkling up her eyes as if she had seen him before somewhere. ‘Like the same wan that found they wee lassies in the woods last summer?’

  ‘I…’
Lorimer began but before he could say another word, Betty had caught him by the arm and was leading him to the door from where she had emerged.

  ‘Sadie Dunlop. Yer canteen lady. She’s my late man’s cousin. Ah get a’ the talk frae Sadie,’ Betty confided. ‘An’ I can tell ye, she thinks a lot of you, Mister Lorimer.’

  ‘Ah, Sadie.’

  ‘See ah’m the main cleaner in here but ah get tae do a bit of this and that. Waitressing an’ other things. A’body knows wee Betty MacPherson.’ She grinned and jabbed a surprisingly sharp elbow into Lorimer’s arm.

  ‘D’ye want a cup o’ tea? Mikey the chef jist made some scones. They’re still hoat.’ Another jab from Betty’s elbow came before Lorimer could dodge.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ he replied, somewhat bemused by the little woman’s flow of conversation.

  ‘An’ I tell ye,’ Betty leaned towards him conspiratorially, ‘there’s naebody kens a’ the toffs in here like I do.’ She nodded as though to confirm her words. ‘So jist ye ask away aboot that pair. Noo, sit doon here and ah’ll fetch yer tea. Milk and sugar?’

  Lorimer was relieved to see that there were few other people in the main lounge. One older man was ensconced in the Times and a couple of white-haired matrons were sipping tea at a table in the corner. The seat Betty MacPherson had selected was well out of earshot from anyone else in the room. Despite that, she dropped Lorimer a wink and motioned for him to follow her out of the lounge and into a smaller room next door.

  ‘This is the family room. Naebody’ll bother us in here,’ she told him. ‘There, ye came in jist at the right time, so ye did,’ Betty exclaimed, setting down a laden tea tray on a well-polished table, beside a pair of dark leather settees. ‘I wis jist gettin’ ready for the off.’

  Glancing at his watch, he could see that it was approaching six o’clock. It was doubtful now whether he’d manage to join Maggie in time for visiting hour. Outside the sky was darkening but there was still enough light to see the misty outline of hills, the putting greens and the starter’s hut at the first tee.

  As Betty poured from a silver teapot, Lorimer glanced around him. It was a pleasant little room with watercolours on the walls of what must be different vistas of the golf course. A television was set on a shelf at an angle in the corner opposite them. Had the Jacksons spent time in this room, sitting perhaps in this very spot, watching golfing events like the US Masters?

  ‘There’s yer tea. Now eat up, Mikey’s scones are rare.’

  ‘Thanks, Betty.’ Lorimer smiled at the woman, suddenly grateful for her obvious attempts to make a fuss of him. ‘You said you were related to our Sadie. Do you see her often?’ Lorimer asked. It was always a good idea to initiate a conversation that prepared some common ground and for a minute or two he listened to an account of Betty’s family and how the woman had moved away from her Glasgow home to be near her daughter after her husband’s death. He had waited for that particular turn in the conversation, knowing it would arrive, and as Betty put on a suitable sorrowful face at the mention of Mr MacPherson, deceased, Lorimer interrupted the flow of her narrative.

  ‘Sir Ian and Lady Pauline. You knew them well, Betty?’

  ‘Oh, aye. There’s not a one in here that wee Betty disnae know,’ she crowed, lifting up her teacup and giving Lorimer the merest wink.

  ‘So you would know who their friends were and what sort of family the Jacksons were?’

  The older woman regarded Lorimer thoughtfully then set down her teacup with a little sigh. ‘Aye, there’s not much that passes me by in this place. Why d’you think Mrs Hutcheson was so ready to pass you on to the wee cleaning lady?’ She smiled as though she had made some sort of joke.

  ‘And you’ll know all the gossip as well?’ Lorimer grinned back, encouragingly.

  ‘It doesnae do tae speak ill of the dead,’ Betty told him sternly, her expression immediately serious.

  ‘I’m not asking you to do that, Betty,’ Lorimer said quietly. ‘But if I’m ever to find out what happened that night of the fire I need to know as much as possible about the Jacksons.’ He looked straight into her grey eyes, holding her in his gaze. ‘What did they do? Who were their friends? Was there any earthly reason for someone to set fire to that house?’

  ‘Och, there’ve been fires here afore noo. I mind a spate o’ burned oot motors years back. An’ then there wis that caravan. Terrible thing. See,’ she nudged Lorimer with her elbow once more, ‘some vandals set this caravan alight. It wis thon gas canister thing, ye know. The neighbours had tae get the family oot. An’ a baby an’ all. In a room right next tae where the caravan wis at the side of the driveway. I mind that yin well. Oor lassie lives roon the corner frae the hoose.’

  ‘The Jacksons,’ Lorimer reminded the woman. ‘What can you tell me about them?’

  The sigh that Betty MacPherson gave now seemed to come from the depths of her soul. With a shake of her head she looked away from Lorimer and out of the window as if to see something in her mind’s eye. ‘Och, I suppose it won’t do any harm to them now to tell you. Dead is dead, after all.’ She reached down for her cup and drained the last of the tea before continuing. ‘Pauline wasn’t as well thought of as folk make out. Nice lady and all as she was — and she was aye polite tae me — there were quite a few in here’ — she jerked her thumb in the direction of the people in the next room — ‘that didnae approve of her relationship. ’

  Betty leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘She wis seein’ a bit too much of thon fella frae the works. That wis what they all said. Know whit I mean? I cannae say masel if she wis actually.. well, you know… but it was all the talk around the village.’

  ‘What fellow?’

  ‘The wee man, Tannock. Sir Ian’s partner. They were havin’ an affair, so it wis said.’

  Lorimer frowned. Surely that was malicious gossip? Somehow he couldn’t imagine Hugh Tannock and his partner’s wife… Then a sudden memory came back to him of the man’s display of grief during Lorimer’s visit. Had it been the mention of Pauline Jackson that had sparked off the man’s emotion?

  ‘You don’t believe me? Aye, well, I can see why. They were nae whit ye wid call a braw match. Her bein’ that nice looking and him a richt wee bachle o’ a man. But it’s whit’s in yer hert that counts, isn’t it?’ Betty’s bright bird-like eyes caught his own and for a moment he sensed the woman’s underlying sympathy. ‘Well, doesnae matter now, does it?’ she continued, setting down her teacup. ‘And that wee man wouldn’t have wanted tae hurt Lady Pauline, I can promise ye that, Mr Lorimer,’ Betty insisted.

  ‘Did Sir Ian know about this?’

  ‘Well if he didn’t then he must have been blind and deaf. But then, they do say the spouse is always the last tae know, don’t they?’

  ‘What about the Jackson children?’

  ‘Och, they wouldnae know whit wis goin’ on. Thon Serena didnae know the time o’ day never mind whit her mother got up tae at the golf club. She wis far mair interested in goin oot tae parties an that. All dolled up. Don’t get me wrang,’ she turned to look at Lorimer suddenly, ‘nice enough lassie. Bonnie, too. But a wee bit of a want, if you get my drift. Not quite the full shilling, as my old maw used tae say.’

  ‘And Daniel?’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a man for you. How that pair ever produced a boy like Daniel I’ll never know. First in his class at school all the time. Always top at sports an’ all. Mind you, the lassie was sporty as well, come tae think on it.’ Betty nodded thoughtfully. ‘But such a lovely lad! Had his ain sports car, his big hoose in the toon. Aye, a real success that one. Will he take over from his faither, d’you think?’

  Lorimer gave a small shrug in reply. ‘So you think that Daniel Jackson had no idea that his mother and father’s marriage was a bit shaky?’

  ‘Oh, now I didnae say that. I’m sure their marriage was fine. I don’t think the wee Tannock fella would’ve upset that. It was jist a..’ She searched for the word.

  ‘A fling?’ Lo
rimer suggested.

  ‘Aye, something like that. And I don’t think that Daniel would have known anything about it. He and Mr Tannock were pals. Used to go cycling together with Serena every Sunday afternoon. See, Daniel and Serena were’nae golfers like their folks.’

  Lorimer only half listened as Betty went on about the golfing fraternity in Kilmacolm’s club. The Jackson children and Tannock were all cyclists. It was a hugely popular sport, after all; those familiar lines of figures in racing colours weaving in and out of weekend traffic were surely testament to that. And yet, this bit of information suddenly made his pulse beat a little faster.

  Number 10A Greenlaw Crescent was a mid-terrace house fronted by a patch of unkempt grass, its sagging fence to one side showing years of neglect. A dirty football lay abandoned in one corner, but it was clear from the circular dark marks around the letterbox that someone had been thumping it off the once white-painted door. The curtains at the front were partially closed against the darkness, a flickering light from within showing that the television was on.

  ‘Think our old pal will be at home, then?’ PC Rab Duncan asked his neighbour.

  ‘We’ll soon see,’ came the reply.

  Three thumps from a meaty fist were all it took for the door to open. A thickset figure dressed in black started at the sight of the policemen but just as the man made to close the door, the police officer wedged a size eleven boot into the open space.

  ‘David McGroary?’ Duncan had shouldered his way in and was now standing in the dimly lit hallway. The pungent smell of cannabis drifted towards him.

  ‘Aye, ye ken fine,’ McGroary replied, his lip curling in a pretence at bravado.

  ‘We’d like to invite you to accompany us-’ Duncan began, but before he could continue McGroary turned as if to make off down the passageway but tripped over a discarded holdall in his haste to escape. The dark blue bag burst open, its contents scattering over the floor. Duncan grinned at the sight: he’d been around long enough in this neck of the woods to know what a cache of drugs looked like.