by Alex Gray
‘Superintendent Lorimer to see Doctor Hamilton,’ he informed the receptionist in a tone that he hoped was quiet enough not to attract the attention of the other patients who were waiting behind their magazines.
‘Please go right through. Doctor Hamilton is expecting you,’ the woman told him, indicating the door to her left.
A quick knock was all it took, then Lorimer was in the consulting room. A pretty woman in her mid-thirties stood up immediately, came around her desk and shook his hand.
‘Take a seat, Superintendent. And thanks for coming,’ she added. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do after Sir Ian’s death. It wasn’t something I was prepared for, I suppose.’
‘Doctor Hamilton, I told you on the telephone that I am investigating the deaths of Sir Ian and Lady Pauline.’ Lorimer hesitated, then looked straight at the woman, his blue eyes holding her as he spoke again. ‘Do you have any reason to think that this fire might have been started by Sir Ian himself?’
‘Oh, dear.’ Dr Hamilton dropped her gaze and clasped her hands together tightly. ‘I should have said something at the time, shouldn’t I? It was just that…’
‘Sir Ian wanted you to keep it from his family?’ Lorimer supplied.
‘You guessed, then?’
‘It was something to support a theory I’ve had,’ Lorimer said.
‘He had a form of prostate cancer that isn’t easily treated,’ the doctor told him. ‘It would have killed him eventually. He knew that. But he didn’t want anyone to make a fuss. No therapies, nothing. If he was going to die, then it had to be on his own terms. He was that sort of man, Superintendent,’ Dr Hamilton said, shaking her head as if in despair at the vagaries of human nature. ‘But do you really think he would have let his wife die in the fire? Surely that was an accident? And that beautiful house?’ She shook her head again sadly.
‘It’s hard to surmise what was on his mind at the time, doctor. And that was one reason why I wanted to see you. As his GP you were better placed than most to know that sort of thing.’
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she began. ‘He was a private sort of person. A bit fierce, if you want to know the truth, but that may have been because of the pain and the fact that his sex life had been on hold for so long. Ian Jackson came to me for medical help, yes, but he was not the sort of man to ask for anything else. No hand to hold, I’m afraid.’ She smiled tremulously as if she had been saddened by her patient’s reticence as much as the nature of his death.
‘And you would be prepared to say as much in a court of law?’
‘Of course.’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘If it should come to that.’
Lorimer had not been surprised to find that Hugh Tannock also lived in Kilmacolm. The village was home to many captains of industry and weel kent names, as Betty MacPherson would have put it. Just a forty-minute drive from Glasgow by fast car, and half that time from the international airport, the village was perfectly situated for anyone who wanted easy access to Scotland’s largest city while enjoying a rural existence.
Tannock’s house was set high above Gryffe Road, minutes away from the surgery, its facade facing down the valley towards the road that led to Quarriers Village. It seemed to the detective that the windows glinting in the morning sunshine were disdainful eyes surveying the scene below. The green sward of lawns swept around the white house ending in masses of thick rhododendrons that screened the place from passing traffic. He was expected and so the tall black metal twin gates were open but, after he drove the Lexus up towards the front entrance, he saw them close silently behind him. Tannock lived alone, Lorimer reasoned, so it was sensible to have such security measures, but still he felt an uneasy sense of having been taken hostage by the man he was about to visit.
Lorimer had expected to meet at the factory but Tannock had invited him here instead. To see how the other half lived? Maggie had joked when he’d told her. But whatever the man’s reason, Lorimer was curious. Psychologically Tannock would have the advantage of being on his home turf, playing the host. Did that mean he had some inkling about why the detective had requested another meeting? That, and many other questions, would shortly be answered.
The driveway was mossy underfoot, not through neglect but rather as if the owner preferred a rustic type of pathway. Close up he saw that the lawn was in perfect condition, more like the greens at Kilmacolm golf club, and Lorimer wondered if the same groundsman cared for it. He pressed a bell set into the side of the porch and waited.
Looking around, the detective could see the distant hills, patches of sunlight making their flanks an emerald green. That was Misty Law, surely? He’d climbed it with Maggie once after they had been to Muirshiel Country Park to see the hen harriers. For a moment Lorimer wondered what it must be like to be Hugh Tannock, living here with this fabulous view that all his millions had bought him. Then he thought of Pauline Jackson and remembered just what the man had actually lost.
‘Superintendent Lorimer, do come in. Sorry I didn’t come down sooner. On a call.’ Tannock was suddenly there in the vast doorway, ushering Lorimer into his house.
‘My housekeeper’s away down to the village for some shopping, ’ Tannock explained. ‘Do come through to the kitchen and we’ll have a cup of something. Eh?’
Lorimer tried not to stare at the huge reception hall as he followed. There was a highly polished table, bigger than his dining table at home, on which stood an immense floral display. The oak-panelled walls were adorned with paintings in gilded frames and the art historian in Lorimer was provoked to wonder at their provenance. He badly wanted to examine these oils to find a signature. And that wasn’t really a Rubens, hanging over on that wall, was it?
‘In here,’ Tannock called and the detective lengthened his stride to follow the man into a surprisingly old-fashioned kitchen from which music was playing. It looked, to Lorimer, like his idea of a perfect farm kitchen with its long, scrubbed pine table and chairs fitted with bright patchwork cushions. They were slightly faded and the stitching was a little frayed in places but for some reason Tannock had kept them. Had they been painstakingly stitched by the hand of Mrs Tannock, his ex-wife? Or were they from a more distant past? Lorimer let his eyes rove around the kitchen, enjoying what he saw. A cream-coloured Aga and a Welsh dresser full of blue and white china added to the picture. All it needed, he thought, was a cat sleeping somewhere to complete this vision of domestic bliss. As if his thought had conjured it up, a black and white moggy rose from its place on one of the chairs, stretching its back in a furry arc.
Tannock stroked its fur. ‘This is Monty,’ he said, then looked quizzically up at Lorimer. ‘You’re all right with cats? Some folk can’t stand them, others are allergic.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Lorimer told him, strolling over to tickle the cat under its chin. ‘We’ve got one at home.’
Tannock grinned suddenly. ‘Good. Knew we had something in common. Cat people.’ He stopped, listening suddenly to the classical version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ coming from the radio in the corner. ‘Freddie Mercury was a cat lover. Did you know that?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching.
Lorimer nodded. The late Queen star’s fondness for the animals was legendary.
‘Tea or coffee?’ Grosset asked, kettle in hand.
‘Tea, please. Just plain old tea, nothing fancy. And milk, no sugar,’ he added, stretching out his long legs under the table.
It was the first time in a long time Lorimer had felt so relaxed, sitting here in this warm, comfortable place, Monty purring between them. He had liked Hugh Tannock from their first meeting and now he found himself enjoying being here with the man once more. Nice as it was, it made it harder to ask difficult questions; it would be almost unmannerly to bring up the subject that was uppermost in his mind. But, Lorimer reminded himself, he was here to do a job, not to be beguiled by this affable man and his gracious hospitality.
But when Tannock had set down the mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits, his face took on a serious expression
.
‘I have the feeling you’re not here on a social visit, Superintendent. I take it you bring news of an unpleasant sort,’ he added gravely.
Lorimer took a sip of the tea before replying. The biscuit plate remained untouched.
‘Lady Pauline,’ he began and looked the man straight in the eyes.
‘Ah.’ Tannock sighed and gave a nod. ‘I wondered how long that would take you.’
‘You should have told me about your relationship with her,’ Lorimer rebuked him gently.
Tannock raised his eyebrows and gave a shrug. ‘But why? It wasn’t in any way relevant to your inquiries.’
‘I think that’s a matter for me to decide, sir,’ Lorimer told him.
‘Well, I can’t see what bearing our…’ He stopped as if the word affair was too distasteful to utter aloud. ‘Our friendship,’ he said at last. ‘How can it be important to their deaths?’
Lorimer was silent for a moment. This was the question he had been struggling with. There was one possibility that he had considered based on another high-profile house fire.
‘Did Sir Ian know about you and Pauline?’
Tannock frowned. ‘I honestly didn’t think so. But what if he did?’
Lorimer pushed the mug of tea away. ‘There was a case a few years back where a house was deliberately set on fire, its occupants killed in the process. That fire was started by the owner who died alongside his wife and child.’
Tannock nodded, stunned by the memory of a tragic case that had made newspaper headlines for weeks. ‘I remember the one you mean. But he’d been in a terrible financial situation, hadn’t he? Jackson Tannock Technology is a thriving business and Ian had nothing like that to worry him.’
Lorimer let the silence between them deepen. Then the man before him groaned, his hands covering his face as the implication of his own words sank in. Had Ian Jackson taken his own life and that of his wife in a fit of jealousy? It was a question that Lorimer did not need to ask. It was there in the room, a horrible possibility that might never be proved this side of eternity. Suddenly the warmth from the Aga was stifling and the ticking clock on the wall above it seemed unnaturally loud. Monty, he noticed, had slipped off Tannock’s knee and disappeared out of the room.
‘The accelerant?’ Tannock asked hopefully. ‘Wasn’t it put there by someone else?’
‘Traces were found in and around the house and a chip pan had been deliberately left to burn. It was right underneath their bedroom. If it was done by an intruder then he had easy access to the house.’ Lorimer watched the man closely, seeing the doubt in his eyes change to despair.
‘It’s not something that I can put in a report since it’s only a theory. If forensic evidence comes to light to corroborate this idea, though…’ Lorimer shrugged to show what might happen in that scenario. ‘But there is something else I think you ought to know, Mr Tannock.’ Lorimer watched the man’s face carefully as he continued. ‘Sir Ian was dying of cancer.’
All the colour seemed to drain from Hugh Tannock’s face as he took in the detective’s words. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered at last.
Lorimer nodded. ‘I’ve just spoken with his doctor. Sir Ian had insisted that his condition be kept secret from his family. But it does create a different sort of scenario now, doesn’t it? A man with a reason to kill himself, and perhaps to destroy everything he loved.’
‘Oh, Pauline, what have I done to you?’ Tannock whispered, stumbling from the table. He groped his way towards the Belfast sink, holding on to its edge for support. Then he turned his gaze to a picture beside the windowsill. Picking it up, he held to his chest, shoulders heaving in silent sobs.
It should have been a private moment, a signal for Lorimer to leave, but something made him stop. He had seen that image before, hadn’t he?
‘Excuse me, sir, may I have a look at that picture?’
Tannock turned his ruddy face streaked with tears. ‘It’s all I’ve got left of her. Last photo she ever gave me.’ He gulped, handing it over.
Lorimer took it carefully. It was a copy of the one that he had seen in Daniel Jackson’s flat.
His heart quickened.
‘Where was this taken?’ he looked across at Tannock.
‘On the landing. Outside their bedroom.’
‘And how long before the fire was the photograph taken?’
Tannock must have caught the new note of excitement in Lorimer’s voice for his eyes glittered with hope.
‘Just a few days, as I recall. Why?’
Lorimer smiled suddenly. ‘May I take this? I promise it will be returned to you. But I can tell you something, Mr Tannock. Looking at this photograph, I think we may have jumped to the wrong conclusion. I don’t think that fire was started by Sir Ian after all.’
It was perhaps a little cruel to leave the man worried and wondering after Lorimer’s earlier supposition had reduced him to tears, but it was a police matter and one that had to remain as confidential as possible. What he had seen in that photograph gave Lorimer renewed energy to tackle this case.
For, behind the seated woman smiling into the camera’s lens, was a bedroom door with a key in the lock.
But it was on the outside of the room.
So some other hand must have turned that key, deliberately locking the couple in and leaving them to their fate.
CHAPTER 28
‘ Yes!’ Lorimer gazed at the telephone on his desk as if it had conjured up some magic. Somehow the detailed information in this initial forensic report had not filtered through to Ray’s investigative team. He ground his teeth, reminding himself exactly why he was here doing this review. The forensic scientist at Gartcosh had confirmed exactly what Lorimer had wanted to know. The brass door fittings had been intact after the fire had done its worst and now he knew what he had only previously suspected: the key was still in the lock, its mechanism clearly showing that it had been used to secure the bedroom door. And that photograph on the landing told him it had been turned from the outside.
This put a whole new complexion on things: now Lorimer wanted to examine the case from each and every perspective. What reason could anyone possibly have had for killing these two people? And who had easy access not only to sprinkle accelerant around the house but to ensure that the key had been put into the keyhole on the landing side? It was not, he reasoned, something that anyone would have noticed. He doubted whether either of the Jacksons would have been in the habit of locking their own bedroom door when there were only two of them at home. And he doubted very much whether Pauline Jackson had risked having her lover there. Tannock had insisted that their liaison had been discreet. But not discreet enough for the Betty MacPhersons of this world, he told himself.
No, someone had set that fire deliberately to kill Ian and Pauline Jackson.
He considered Serena and Daniel. They stood to inherit vast wealth in the form of the company shares, and money was all too often a motivator in murder. But they had struck Lorimer as already having plenty of the world’s goods. And there had been nothing acrimonious between the children and parents. No, he thought, that didn’t fit. He couldn’t see Daniel killing anybody. The young man had enormous prospects within the firm. And, as for Serena, well, hadn’t she been completely traumatised by the loss of her parents?
The offshore business had intrigued him and it was an area that he had still to investigate thoroughly. Some feelers had already been out in the UK but perhaps it was time to cast the net further afield.
‘DI Martin, could I have a word, please?’ Lorimer poked his head around the door where the DI and several other members of the team were sitting.
Rhoda Martin stood up, brushed invisible fluff off her dark skirt and sashayed out of the room after Lorimer.
‘Take a seat, will you? This won’t take long and I know you’re up to your ears with the Port Glasgow case.’
Martin sat opposite the senior detective, crossed her legs and waited, hands folded neatly on her lap.
&nb
sp; ‘It’s the Jackson murder. We’ve had a real breakthrough,’ Lorimer told her. ‘Look.’ He handed her the forensic report with his own appended notes clipped on one corner. Martin read the paper, her eyes widening.
‘Bloody hell!’ she said at last. ‘You surely don’t think that it’s one of the family?’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you. Daniel and Serena Jackson are your friends. Right?’
‘We…’ Martin began, ‘we all went to school together. Serena and I have stayed in touch.’ Matter of fact I’m seeing her tomorrow, she almost told him. She stopped herself, frowning. ‘Daniel is a great guy. Total sporting star, clever, always had the girls following him about. If he’d gone through the US school system they’d have called him a jock. But the nicest type you could want to meet,’ she insisted.
Lorimer nodded. ‘I liked him too,’ he said. ‘And I can’t think of any reason why he would want to commit such a terrible act.’
‘Nor would Serena,’ Martin retorted quickly. ‘Okay, she was a bit daft at school. Played around with all the troublemakers, didn’t work very hard at her subjects. But that was just Serena. She was high spirited in those days,’ Martin added thoughtfully.
‘What happened to make her change?’ Lorimer asked. This description of the young woman he had met certainly did not tally with DI Martin’s account of her friend.
‘She’s a lot quieter nowadays, I’ll grant you that, Sir,’ Martin admitted. ‘But don’t we all grow up eventually? She wanted to make her career as a model, but the lifestyle was all a bit too much for her, I guess. Nice to have the family business to fall back on, though. And she never wanted for a thing. The Jacksons were the most generous of parents. Her twenty-first birthday party was the talk of the village for months afterwards.’
‘Okay, so there’s no apparent motive from either of the children,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘And to be truthful it didn’t seem likely. Did it? No,’ he continued. ‘If it wasn’t an insider, then perhaps it was someone known to the family who had easy access to the house.’