Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  ‘You mean like staff? Cleaners and whatever? Or are we back to Davie McGroary?’

  Lorimer ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. ‘I didn’t think McGroary had it in him. But someone had access to that house. Someone who knew where the Jacksons’ bedroom was, and who put that key on the other side of the door several days before the fire.’

  ‘McGroary wouldn’t be likely to have admission to the house, though, would he?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. So who else is there? Cleaners? Housekeeping staff?’

  ‘They didn’t have anyone resident. We did ask that at the time, Sir,’ Martin pointed out. ‘They used a firm of cleaners on a regular basis. We’ve got all the details on file already.’

  Lorimer nodded. It had been one area that Colin Ray’s original team had covered.

  ‘Maybe we should be looking at some of these offshore businesses of Jackson’s? Perhaps he wasn’t as solvent as Hugh Tannock makes out.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Martin replied slowly, savouring the thought. ‘What with the credit crunch, there might well be stuff hidden away that we know nothing about. And you said that Daniel spoke about these odd foreign types who visited.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lorimer said. ‘I think we want to dig into that a bit more. So,’ he clapped his hands together then gave them a rub as if to suggest immediate action, ‘let’s get on to this shall we?’

  ‘You mean right now, Sir?’ Martin asked, glancing at her wrist-watch. ‘I was hoping to be off duty in a couple of hours. Big weekend coming up.’ She grinned, pulling a face.

  ‘Oh?’ Lorimer asked with a smile.

  ‘Serena Jackson’s house warming party, actually,’ Martin admitted, uncrossing her legs and sitting further forward as though she were anxious to leave. ‘She’s decided to throw it at last. It’s probably a good thing. Have friends around, and all that. Cheer her up a bit. Don’t worry, I’ll be there as an old chum, not a police officer. ’

  There was a moment’s silence between them while Lorimer wondered if he should comment on the inappropriateness of his DI’s social life clashing with the case. But perhaps he should keep his own counsel meantime. Plus it might sound pretty small-minded to object to this pretty girl’s partying.

  ‘Wish my weekend was going to be such fun,’ Lorimer admitted, then wished he hadn’t spoken the words aloud.

  ‘Ah, the invalid comes home again? Well, good luck with that, Sir,’ Martin replied, standing up. ‘And maybe if we make the right sort of noises we’ll have some response from overseas by Monday morning.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what we can achieve with what’s left of our Friday afternoon, shall we?’ Then, standing up, Lorimer walked over to the door and opened it for the DI.

  ‘Thanks,’ she told him, giving him a friendly smile as she left.

  Sitting back down behind his desk, Lorimer gave a sigh of relief. The case seemed to be going somewhere at last. And his relationship with DI Martin appeared to be thawing out. She was a bit of an enigma, he told himself. All stiff and resentful one minute then trying to ingratiate herself the next. But, when it came down to work, she was all right, really. Perhaps he ought to have told her to be careful what she said to Serena Jackson and her friends. Then he shook his head. It would be fine. She was an experienced officer. Telling her something like that would only have made her bristle with annoyance. And rightly so.

  ‘Ohh!’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rhoda put out a hand to steady the detective constable as she bent over in pain.

  ‘Oh,’ Kate gasped again, her hands grabbing the edge of the wash basin. ‘Wee blighter’s probably lying on a nerve. Happens quite a lot at this stage. So everyone tells us,’ she added, grimacing as she tried to straighten up again.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Rhoda said, watching her colleague’s face in the mirror, thankful to see that some colour was returning to Kate’s cheeks. ‘I thought you were going to pass out just now.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘Can’t see me ever wanting to go through all of that.’

  Kate grinned. ‘Bet you do one day, though. Once you’ve found your Mr Right.’

  Rhoda Martin gave a little wiggle in front of the bank of mirrors in the ladies’ loo. A smirk appeared on her face, making Kate raise her eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, aye, something we should know about then? Hot date this weekend?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ Rhoda replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Tell you what, though,’ she looked down at her black skirt and jacket, ‘I’ll be glad to get out of this and into the new outfit I bought last week. Sonia Rykiel,’ she added, tossing her hair back in the superior way that never failed to annoy Kate Clark.

  ‘I’ll just be glad to fit into something normal,’ Kate muttered, watching Rhoda’s slim figure as she swept out of the loo. ‘Never mind anything posh.’

  The sky was only beginning to darken with imminent rain clouds when Lorimer reached the car park, noting the DI getting into her black Golf, her cycle secured to the rear of the vehicle. Kate Clark gave him a wave from the passenger seat of her husband’s car as Lorimer headed towards the Lexus. Kate had made a joke earlier on about having to push the seat as far back as it would go to accommodate her swelling girth.

  Other officers had already arrived for the next shift, ready for whatever a Greenock Friday night had in store, but now Rhoda, Kate and Lorimer were going their separate ways, leaving the concerns of murder and mayhem behind them.

  Rhoda Martin waited until the big dark blue car had left before reversing out of her parking space. Her eyes shone with a girlish light that none of her colleagues usually saw; now she could really begin to enjoy the weekend ahead of her, exchange these drab working clothes for the designer outfit that was hanging outside her wardrobe door, new high heels still in their separate cotton drawstring bags. Tomorrow morning would be spent cycling to Mar Hall for a professional manicure and facial at the Spa then back again to prepare for her night out. A night out with folk of her own sort, she thought, waiting for the lights to change, like Serena and Daniel. For, she told herself with a frisson of excitement, Serena’s brother was bound to be at the party, wasn’t he?

  Not everybody was in a hurry to leave work for the weekend. Back in the city, Callum Uprichard was smiling to himself as he jotted down some notes. They would be typed up later on, but for now he wanted to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. ‘Interesting,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Not what I’d have expected at all.’ The tyre pattern had been invisible to the naked eye but under the powerful forensic microscope it was amazing what could be seen. A thin line with a distinctive herringbone pattern and that one tiny V-shaped nick had told the scientist rather a lot. First of all, the tyre came from a racing cycle, but not just any ordinary sort of racing cycle. Oh, no, if what he had seen was correct, this was the Rolls Royce of racing-cycle tyres, a Clement.

  Clements were totally unlike conventional tyres. Made from silk, they were super-light and only used for special events, never for long distance cycling. He imagined the cyclist whizzing along, the tyres singing under him. The possibility of puncturing one of these babies was pretty high, Callum knew, and so they’d be more likely to be found in velodromes than out in the highways and byways of Inverclyde. Still, his report would give K Division plenty to speculate about. A cyclist who could afford something like this hanging around the garden of an elderly lady in Port Glasgow was curious enough in itself. But there was more. The scientist grinned as he noted details of the tiny soil particles that had been found around the treadmark. The cycle had come to rest on a patch of ground that had been treated with blood and bone fertiliser, a type specially made up in a garden centre down the coast. The tyre may possibly have picked up some of that material, Callum wrote. It could well be found embedded in the tyre itself (see nick, he scribbled in the margin) or under the cantilever of the brakes. And only a dedicated cyclist, or one who was forensically aware, would clean all of that up. Still it was only one half of
an equation and the police needed to find the cycle and its owner in order to make sense of this evidence.

  Callum whistled through his teeth as he began to type on his keyboard. Outside, the rush hour traffic was building up to a noisy crescendo but he was happy to take his time to finish this report and send it to the SIO in Greenock. He felt sorry for those poor sods struggling away from the city, desperate to leave their work behind. This was much better fun than sitting in an endless queue of cars. He had the best job in the world, he told himself, as he considered this link in a chain between searching for and finding a serious criminal; the very best.

  CHAPTER 29

  The sky looked bruised this morning, flesh-coloured clouds overlaid with patches of smoky grey shapes, shifting and changing as they drifted eastwards. Somewhere the sun was struggling to brighten the horizon. Trees that, minutes before, had been stark against an alabaster sky now glowed bronze, their empty branches the colour of autumn foliage against an artist’s wash of eggshell blue and violet.

  Maggie turned from the window, listening to the sound of her husband’s breathing. She hovered between the thought of Chancer downstairs in the kitchen waiting for his bowl to be filled and the notion of climbing quietly back into the warmth and comfort of her Saturday morning bed. Saturday mornings might not be so free and easy after today, she told herself, slipping back under the duvet and snuggling against Lorimer’s bare back. He moved, still half-asleep, one arm drifting down across her thigh. He’d been restless all night, eventually waking her up at some ungodly hour with a cup of tea and an expression of apology on his face. It was the strain of these two cases; the fire in Kilmacolm and the one in Port Glasgow where a calculating and vicious killer had selected vulnerable old ladies. Maggie shuddered, remembering her husband’s face as he’d told her the details. And thinking, That could have been Mum.

  Just another half an hour and she’d get up. Everything was ready downstairs, after all; Mum’s bed made up, all her new toiletries neatly arranged in the loo, their own brought up here for the duration. Maggie shivered. Duration. Where had that word come from? Was she already thinking of the time when Mum would be able to return to her own cosy wee place? She scolded herself for the thought. It would be fine. Mum was to have these health professionals in every day, after all. She’d not lack for company and they had even managed to sort out a DVD player for her to watch downstairs if she wanted to. Ever since Dad had died, Maggie had seen an independent streak in her old Mum that she really admired. Alice had never complained about being on her own. She’d just got on with the business of living, making a pattern to her week of Church, the seniors’ club, shopping and pottering about her bit of garden. Yes, Alice Finlay had managed all right, Maggie told herself. And now she deserved to be cosseted and looked after. Maggie cuddled closer into her husband’s back, relishing the warm fug under the duvet while telling herself that it really was time she was making a move.

  Life was funny, wasn’t it? Here they were, a childless couple with plenty of room for a few kids to run around, yet it was an elderly parent who would be taking up some of that space instead. For a moment she wondered what sort of lives these three old ladies from Port Glasgow had lived. Had their days been like Mum’s before her stroke? And were their children stunned into disbelief by the idea that somebody had deliberately taken their lives away? Lorimer had talked to her about the case last night as they had lain together here, side by side, his hand clasping her own. Perhaps he had needed to expunge the thoughts of these old people from his mind before Mum came home to them? Somehow, Maggie thought, bringing Mum out of hospital today only served to underline the horror of these murders.

  Alice Finlay was already dressed, her breakfast tray to one side waiting for the ward maid to reappear and take it away. It had not been so difficult yesterday getting her clothes on but today her fingers had seemed to be devoid of the strength she had built up again and she looked down at her cardigan, dismayed to see its buttons all awry. That was what old folk looked like, she thought, undoing the buttons slowly, her knuckle joints protesting at the effort. But I am an old person, she reminded herself; nearly at my three score years and ten.

  It was odd how she had dreams of her younger self. And how on awakening she sometimes had to struggle to remember her real age. Twenty-six was the most common one. She was waiting at a bus stop, going somewhere or other, her clothes fitting neatly around the slim body she could still remember. And then she would remember Maggie, her baby, and suddenly time seemed to fast forward and Maggie was a school teacher married to that tall, dark policeman. And she was in hospital, waiting for the light to come in at those windows, grateful for another day.

  Today she was going home. Not back to where she had fallen, no, not there. But to Maggie and Bill’s lovely house with the ginger cat and the open plan kitchen with its aromas of coffee and home-made soup. Alice felt her shoulders relax as she contemplated the move to her daughter’s home. It would be a sort of holiday: convalescence, they used to call it, after an illness that had left you so debilitated that you had to go to a rest home to build up your strength. Her great aunt had gone to one in Largs, she remembered, making the journey to Ayrshire an annual treat for years thereafter. Perhaps Maggie might take her down to the seaside one day once the weather improved. Pushing her in a wheelchair, maybe?

  Alice smiled ruefully to herself. Maggie pushing her around! What a reversal of roles! It seemed only the other day that she was tucking her little girl into the navy blue Silver Cross pram and taking her for walks through the park.

  ‘Mrs Finlay?’ It was Sister Kilbryde. Alice looked up, her hands still clutching the edge of her unbuttoned cardigan.

  ‘You look wonderful this morning! All ready to leave us?’ she teased.

  ‘Well,’ Alice began, remembering to speak slowly and breathe carefully between her words, ‘it’s been an ex-per-i-ence,’ she said, smiling as the syllables came together. ‘You’ve been so good to me,’ she added fondly. And it was true. The nursing staff had been wonderful: never too busy to help her to the toilet or give her a hand with washing and dressing herself. For a moment Alice’s shoulders stiffened as she wondered what she would do without all of these health care professionals around her night and day.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Sister Kilbryde told her, the shrewd look assessing the old woman’s body language accurately. ‘There will be plenty of helpers to see that everything continues just as usual. The physios and occupational health people will be in to see you on Monday. And I’m sure your daughter and son-in-law will want to have you to themselves over the next couple of days.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps it’s no bad thing that there are no grandchildren running around, you know. What you need right now is a time of peace and quiet.’

  Alice nodded, agreeing. She remembered those wee ones shouting and making a racket at visiting time last night, the parents doing absolutely nothing to quieten them down. That sort of thing would drive her mad.

  ‘But remember, Mrs Finlay,’ Sister Kilbryde added, patting Alice’s hand, ‘anything you feel anxious about, just give the ward a ring. There will always be someone to talk to and answer your questions. Okay?’

  Alice gave a brief nod, smiling to cover the uncertainty she still felt.

  ‘Doctor will be in later this morning to see you then we can sort out all your paperwork for going home,’ the sister told her and, giving Alice another reassuring smile, the woman stepped away, nodding at the patient in the next bed as she went.

  Alice breathed a long sigh. It would be all right. Of course it would. She was just being silly, her heart fluttering with the excitement of what lay ahead of her.

  Rhoda Martin free-wheeled down the tree-lined drive, glad that the journey was almost over. Her cycle training hadn’t been as extensive as she would have liked and the run up here had taken a bit longer than she’d expected. Still, it was a lovely spring morning now and she could smell the fresh woody smell coming from the pines to her left. As she c
ycled more slowly along the narrow road, a couple of rabbits stopped their nibbling to look up at her, frozen like small brown stones against the green verges. Rhoda grinned, her feet pushing against the pedals. Hopefully she’d have a different effect on Daniel Jackson tonight. But by then, she told herself, she’d have been primped and pampered, hair washed and smelling sweet, not all sweaty under her Endura jacket. She gave an involuntary shrug. Serena might sport her Assos gear when they were out for a run but it was the best she could afford right now on a police officer’s salary. The Spa was in sight now, a low white building against the backdrop of the River Clyde and the Kilpatrick Hills beyond.

  Rhoda slid to a stop then hefted the lightweight cycle towards the double doors of the Spa. It was only her second visit here. As a member, Serena had taken her the first time. She was never away from this place, Rhoda thought with a sudden pang of irritation. What money could buy for some folk! Still, it was her turn today and she was going to make the most of it. Then she’d be heading back down the road, ready to put things into action. As she entered the reception area she caught the pungent scents of Aveda candles mingling with some herbal tisane. Rhoda took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the tension across her shoulders that needed to be massaged away.

  It would be fine, she told herself. Everything was going according to plan. What could possibly go wrong?

  ‘It’s always the same,’ Rosie grumbled. ‘Just when you’re looking forward to a quiet weekend, a nutter has to end someone’s life with a blade!’

  ‘Well, you are on call,’ Solly reasoned, raising his eyebrows at her.

  ‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I know but I really wanted to come with you on that RSPB walk along from the art galleries and museum today.’ Rosie made a face even as she gathered up her kit ready to head off to Glasgow’s east end where a body awaited her ministrations.