by Alex Gray
‘We’ll see, darling,’ he whispered into her hair, ‘we’ll see.’
Malcolm closed the bedroom door and stepped quietly away. The Tale of Peter Rabbit was told over and over each night but Mandy never tired of hearing Daddy reading to her. He’d left her yawning as she turned over onto her side, one thumb stuck into her mouth. It was a habit Lesley hated but tonight he hadn’t had the heart to admonish the little girl. There was so little time left for cuddles and stories. Perhaps he should take the therapist’s advice and simply jack in his work. An intense longing to be with his family threatened to overwhelm him. He stood outside the pink-and-white room with its hanging mobiles and flowered wallpaper, imagining the rise and fall of his daughter’s shoulders as she drowsed her way to sleep. If only he could hold onto this moment for ever: the quietness, the peace of knowing that she slept contentedly, his only wish.
Downstairs the telephone rang, shattering the silence, and Malcolm made his way towards the sound, holding onto the banister for support. Lesley was out fetching Gayle from Brownies. It was probably one of his wife’s friends.
Already rehearsing what he was going to say to Janette, Lin or whoever it might be, Malcolm picked up the telephone. A puzzled frown crossed his brow as a man’s voice whispered in his ear.
‘Michael?’ He sank to the floor, his shaking body no longer able to support him. ‘Michael? Is that really you?’
*
JJ had gone out, locking the doors behind him. He’d grinned at Michael as he’d left, an expression of devilry in his eyes. He wouldn’t be long, he’d said. Had to see to something. Whatever that was seemed to necessitate taking the laptop and his overnight gear, a fact that was not lost on the man left behind.
Michael had waited by the window listening to the van as it disappeared out of earshot. The dust swirled from the spot where the van had stood, then gently blew back onto the grasses on either side of the road. Heart thudding, Michael raced through to the kitchen. For hours he’d eyed a large walk-in cupboard opposite the entrance from the living room. Not once had JJ tried to open it in all the time they’d been in the house, an omission the younger man had found significant.
There was no door handle, just a ragged hole where a lock might once have been. Sticking his middle and index fingers into the gap, Michael felt for an edge to grip and tugged. Slowly the door pulled towards him, then stuck, its lower edge jammed against a bulge in the thick vinyl floor covering. He looked at the floor in dismay. Maybe water had seeped under the vinyl at one time leaving the surface so uneven. Yanking the door harder made no impression so he eased himself into a position where he could peer into the dark recess of the cupboard. With one arm he held the door open as far as it would go while he thrust in the other to search the shelves. Vague shapes of boxes and polythene bags were jumbled together as if someone had stored their rubbish in a hurry and left. His vision became keener as he peered into the gloom, picking out a set of ancient tableware still in its original cardboard container, a stack of different narrow boxes that he recognized as children’s jigsaws and a bundle of cloth wrapped into a roll. Digging deeper, Michael felt the shapes of jugs and vases. His hand caught the handle of something and he jumped back in horror as the smash of glass rang out in the kitchen, shards scattering out of the door. Quickly he pushed them back into the cupboard with his shoe, looking behind him and listening for the noise of an engine that would signal JJ’s return.
Once more he edged into the opening and began his search. Then his fingers closed on a cold familiar shape. Almost weeping with relief, Michael clasped it tightly. The telephone was inside a plastic carrier bag and as he tried to draw it out, the handset jangled as it hit the door. There was barely enough room to manoeuvre it through the gap but at last it was out.
Speed was important now and Michael set about heaving the refrigerator a few inches from the wall so he could insert the jack into the empty socket. His hands trembled as the plastic plug refused to go in. He couldn’t see what he was doing, trusting to touch alone, feeling around the socket’s shape. There seemed to be a flap covering the entrance to the socket. Carefully Michael pushed this up with his thumbnail. He held his breath then let out a sigh as the jack plug slid sweetly into the socket.
Trembling, he took the handset and hesitated before he pressed out a number. Should he telephone the police? JJ had warned that they were hunting for him. A body had been found in the woods: his passport and other ID with it. They’d sling him into a penitentiary soon as look at him, his captor had crowed. It had to be someone he could trust, he told himself; someone whose name hadn’t come up in those documents he’d shown to Duncan Forbes.
Michael dialled a long string of numbers quickly. The events of the past days hadn’t dulled his memory, he thought with something approaching triumph as he listened to the ringtone. Numbers had always been his thing. Jenny had teased him about his ability to recall so many at the drop of a hat.
Michael gave a sigh of relief as the voice came over the line. ‘Yes, it’s really me. It’s a long story, Malcolm, but there are things I need you to do for me. I don’t have a lot of time and I might have to hang up fast so listen, will you?’
The radio was playing his favourite country tunes as JJ drove along the narrow ribbon of road. All it had taken was a couple of signatures to authorize the account. The money would be there in a matter of hours, and tomorrow he would be well on his way from this God-forsaken place with all his childhood memories. It wouldn’t do to hang around these parts too long, he thought, else the nightmares that had driven him away would begin to surface once again. He glanced sideways at the red canvas bag that held his shotgun. If he was stopped on this lonely stretch of road, nobody would bat an eyelid at his carrying such a weapon. Every dirt farmer in the district used to have one when he was a kid. For an instant the smile left the man’s face and his mouth became a thin, hard line. Don’t go down that road, a voice told him.
‘It’s okay, JJ. Everythin’s fine and dandy,’ he hollered, a grin spreading over his face. Sure it was. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes to obliterate a remembered image: his father lying in a pool of blood, his mother screaming at him as he lowered the shotgun. He shook his head as if to be free of the scene. Concentrate on what’s goin’ on right now, his grown-up voice scolded. With a sigh JJ focused on the road ahead. Soon he could put all the rest of his plans into motion. And they were plans that didn’t include taking a passenger along this time around.
Michael put down the phone with a sigh. Whatever happened to him now, he could trust Malcolm to do what was right. Tears pricked the back of his eyelids as he thought of the terrible things Malcolm had told him. Duncan Forbes had been like a father to him. Now he was dead and the same hands that had effected his execution had undoubtedly authorized his own demise. The thought galvanized the young man into action.
JJ had locked the front door, and the windows in the main rooms were all fixed with inside locks. To escape from this place, Michael would have to do some real damage. He prowled round the house, testing the glass of the windows, one ear always listening for that returning vehicle.
In the end it was the bathroom that provided his means of escape. The frosted window gave slightly under his fingers, its ancient putty cracked round the edges. What to use as a missile to burst through the glass? Michael’s eyes lit on the metal stand that held the rolls of toilet tissue. Snatching it up and pulling off the paper, he weighed it in his hands. It seemed heavy enough.
With a roar Michael ran at the bathroom window. The base of the holder slammed against the frosted glass, causing it to quiver under his grasp. Three times he repeated the action then, in a burst of angry despair, hurled his whole weight against the window. To his amazement the glass gave way under the impact, swaying outwards from the now-damaged frame.
‘Got you, you bastard!’
Michael seized a towel from the rail and pushed hard against the glass until at last it fell with a satisfying tinkle on
to the sun-baked earth below.
He put his head out, breathing in the hot air with relish but also alert for the sound of a distant motor. The ground was covered in bits of the windowpane and he’d have to be careful as he climbed out, he realized. There was no room to do anything other than drop down head first. Balling his fists into the sleeves of his shirt he pushed himself outwards. His shoulder snagged against the rough edge of the window frame but if he forced his upper body out then simple physics dictated that his weight would take him forwards.
Instinctively covering his face with both sleeves, he dropped to the ground, rolling himself clear of most of the broken glass.
A swift look to left and right showed him an empty road. Beyond the house lay fields of long grass. Glancing upwards, Michael noticed that the telephone wires led away from the road and over the fields. Somewhere there had to be another house with a telephone. Not stopping to look back, Michael ducked under the perimeter wire that separated JJ’s house from the fields and began to run.
‘What’s wrong, love?’ Lesley sank down beside him. Malcolm glanced from his wife to their older daughter. Gayle was watching her favourite cartoon, a bowl of cereal on her lap. Brownies always made her hungry.
There was so much to tell but he could only remain silent. To begin to speak would open the floodgates and he doubted if he could trust himself to stop.
He had made that telephone call for Michael and now he wondered what was happening with the young accountant. Would he manage to evade his captor? The news about Duncan had obviously been a shock. He was glad that he had managed to avoid any mention of Jennifer.
‘Malcolm?’ Lesley’s eyes showed her concern.
‘It’s okay, love, just feeling a bit peaky this evening.’ He patted her hand.
‘Ulcer playing up again? You really must go back and see Dr Leckie. Promise me you will?’ Her head rested on his shoulder and he felt the warmth of her like a balm.
‘I promise,’ he replied, but even as his words were uttered he felt he was betraying the woman he so desperately loved.
CHAPTER 39
The noise of the garden gate banging in a gust of wind made her sit up with a start. Ever since Tony’s funeral she’d been jumpy. Shelley Jacobs had been lying on the settee, watching the TV screen’s flickering light, until that noise set her heart thudding. Slowly she moved across the room, edging against the wall so nobody outside could see her. She listened for a few minutes, waiting for another sound that might tell her it was only the wind outside and her over-active imagination that held her there, trembling in her silk nightdress.
The place was in darkness but Shelley could make out the sweep of lawn and the path that led to the gate. Just as she was about to move away from that corner by the window the security light flooded her garden with a brightness that made her gasp. And against that light was cast the shadow of a man.
Shelley sank down on the floor with a whimper. If she stayed here out of sight he couldn’t find her, could he? The sound of breaking glass catapulted her into action. She darted across the room, grabbed the telephone and dialled 999.
The female police constable sat opposite the woman, nursing a mug of tea between her hands. Mrs Jacobs hadn’t stopped shaking since their arrival. The downstairs window of the utility room had been smashed and the small sprinkling of glass out on her patio showed that it had been an intruder all right. The hole looked as though it had been punched inwards leaving many more shards of glass scattered all over the laminate floor. But that was the extent of the damage unless you could count the nerves of the woman shivering on the settee.
‘He came to get me,’ Shelley whispered at last, her eyes flicking up to meet the patient gaze of the uniformed officer. ‘I know he did.’
‘Who came to get you, Mrs Jacobs?’
But Shelley dropped her eyes and began weeping silently. The shadow, the man who had intruded on her, was out there somewhere. What did it matter if he had a name or not? Tony was dead and she’d be next. But why that should be Shelley couldn’t answer.
She’d never understood what had really happened to Tony. A hired assassin had blown him away, the papers said. The police had got him, though. He was inside, wasn’t he? The police had asked so many questions about his enemies, his rivals. Shelley had been bewildered by it all, not knowing what to answer them. So many innuendos had been made both by the police and Tony’s own staff, hinting at a side to Tony she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. His business had been successful; they’d been a golden couple out on the town, photographed for all the best magazines. What had been wrong with that?
The police had probed insistently. What had been happening prior to his death? Had he been threatened at all? Shelley remembered angry telephone calls and Tony’s rage afterwards. Someone had wanted him to do a deal, that was all she’d known. And it had made him so furious that she’d been slightly afraid of him. But Tony had never laid anything but a loving hand upon her. After the funeral, Craig, Tony’s manager at the office, had told her things. But it was just things about the business, and how her husband had resisted any idea of his precious chain of betting shops being merged with a bigger conglomerate. At the time it hadn’t seemed important but later when the overtures were made to her, Shelley sensed that seemed to be at the root of it all and she’d refused to speak to any of their representatives about it. Tony hadn’t wanted it so she didn’t want it.
Her sobs turned to a huge sigh. She was so tired and too cowardly to fight. It was simply a matter of time before they would browbeat her into signing their agreement. The terms of Tony’s will had left her as the major shareholder. Would she be prepared to sell out?
‘Is there anyone you’d like us to phone, Mrs Jacobs?’ The policewoman’s voice penetrated Shelley’s thoughts.
Shelley shook her head then bit her lip. ‘Yes. My brother. Could you get Joseph for me, please?’
Lorimer frowned. He was reading a report about the break-in at the Jacobs place. It included a statement from Joe Reilly, Shelley Jacobs’ brother. Reilly seemed to be dishing the dirt on Tony Jacobs. Was this another of the coincidences he didn’t believe in? Maybe it would be a good idea to probe a bit deeper into the bookmaking firm’s accounts. This time he’d make sure there was no warning before certain paperwork was lifted. Jacobs Betting Shops had an unwelcome visitor this morning: unwelcome but not unexpected after what Joe Reilly had told them. His wee sister was a sitting duck, he’d said. Should never have married that creep Jacobs.
He’d send a copy of this to Solly to keep him abreast of developments, if that’s what they were. But something told the DCI that they’d find a link between the dead bookie and the unexplained deaths of two people from the very accounting firm he’d used.
Solly watched the fax machine as it regurgitated the sheets of paper. It was technical wizardry as far as he was concerned. The sort of thing he could watch for minutes at a time in wordless fascination. The completed sheet slipped into his hand, and as he read the contents the magic of the process was replaced by a concentration so intense that he was deaf to the sounds of voices in the corridor outside his room.
Jacobs Betting Shops had not failed to come into the psychologist’s scrutiny when considering where the murders of two people had taken place. All aspects of this case required a careful evaluation of the geography surrounding the river Clyde. From the Crowne Plaza Hotel on the northbank, down to the bridge that led across to Carlton Place, Solly had taken note of the City Inn as well as the impressive facade of the bookmaker’s main shop and office, its mock-Grecian portico with steps leading down to a paved jetty. There were boats moored there too, flashy pleasure craft for rich punters. Or alternative means of escape? Maybe George Parsonage could tell him more about that sort of river traffic.
Jennifer Hammond’s apartment had looked directly across at the betting shop and that fact alone made him stop and think. Nobody had been seen entering the dead woman’s flat on the night of her murder nor had anyo
ne heard anything sinister until that water had begun its insistent dripping through the footballer’s bathroom ceiling. Could the killer have arrived and left by boat? Was there a mooring by the apartment block? Solly made a mental note to find out.
He laid the paper aside at last and returned to the map that was spread across his desk. Solly was taking his time over these two deaths, just as if they had been part of a larger case of serial killings. Red lines linked the different places along the shoreline from west to east across the George V Bridge and back along the southern side of the river. Past Riverside Gardens the line meandered until it came to another block of flats and stopped abruptly. Graham West lived there. He was the partner who had protested his shock at the suggestion that Duncan Forbes had been murdered. It was a protestation that Solly had listened to with interest. He was rattled in some way but the man’s tone of voice and his body language had told a different story from that of a man unable to believe his colleague had been deliberately killed. West had interested Solly enough for him to have made some discreet enquiries about the man. And that had led him to extend that thin red line along the southbank of the river. But should the line criss-cross the river itself? His pencil hovered above the map as he wondered.
The fax told Solly that the police investigation had extended to a more thorough look at the finances of Jacobs’ bookies and their link with Forbes Macgregor. Somewhere, he was willing to bet, Graham West’s name would be on that paperwork.
While Solly was contemplating his map, Graham West was busy packing files into his already bulging briefcase. The shredder was on the floor above his office. He could destroy the stuff this evening once most of the staff had gone home. Then what? Whoever it was that had been blackmailing him might continue to access his email address. So West had to close that down, somehow, without alerting suspicion. Alec Barr was already watching him. He’d come into his room once too often on flimsy pretexts that didn’t fool West for a moment. They were all twitchy since DCI Lorimer’s visit. Catherine had taken to being out of the office on long lunches with clients and Malcolm simply disappeared at times, leaving his secretary to cover up for him. Now the shadows that had haunted them were closing in: the police wanted to see them again and that psychologist had arranged to visit.