The Riverman (book 4)

by Alex Gray

  Alec Barr had been helpful in that respect. He’d seemed reluctant to part with the knowledge that West had been suffering from some kind of depression. It was an old-fashioned reaction, to speak about mental instability in such hushed tones, but that was exactly what Barr had done. The man had seemed weary, and Lorimer couldn’t blame him. Trying to hold on to the remnants of his world must be hard, yet Barr had maintained a dignity that the senior investigating officer admired. He’d looked grim, as if fearing the worst, and had answered all of Lorimer’s questions with a directness that he’d found refreshing after the clipped responses he usually had to listen to. When asked what he thought was going on, he’d sounded genuinely perplexed. It was a nightmare of someone else’s making, Lorimer thought. Barr would be losing sleep right now, just like the rest of them, trying to figure out what West had done, why he’d done it, and what would happen to his firm once all the facts were uncovered.

  And more would be, Lorimer thought with a yawn, when tomorrow finally came.

  She heard a baby’s cry, sharp and insistent, as she sat bolt upright in the bed. But as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Liz Forbes was only aware of her own breathing. There was no baby in the house; Janey and the family had gone home. It must have been a dream, Liz decided, lying back against the pillows. The night air was cool in their bedroom and the linen curtains moved as a breeze blew in. Duncan had always liked an airy bedroom and she’d become accustomed to the night sounds over the years. There were always noises from the garden: trees soughing in the wind, their resident owl deep within the adjoining woods and, sometimes, the bark of a fox.

  Along the corridor Philip would be sleeping. His room was far enough from his parents’ bedroom to ensure complete privacy for them both, yet just to know he was in the house was comfort enough. Lately he’d dropped hints about maybe having to move away, if the search for work took him further afield. Liz had forced an understanding smile while aching inside. Of course he must make a break for independence. Of course she must let him go his own way, but it was doubly hard to imagine him gone and being left alone in the family home.

  If only, she thought again, if only she could be sure that Duncan had been faithful to her. Her heart told her it was so but the voice in her head, a voice that sounded like the author of those malicious letters, kept insisting that he had strayed. He’d been seeing another woman. Was it true? And if it was, then perhaps somewhere in this city she would be lying awake too, restless with the questions that seemed to have no answer. Who had killed Duncan? And, for God’s sake, why?

  ‘Solly?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Come to bed, darling,’ Rosie mumbled sleepily, her hand at her mouth as she stifled a yawn. ‘It’s after two in the morning, can’t that wait?’ she protested to Solly’s rounded back. He had been sitting there hunched over his computer, when Rosie had finally given up and headed for bed. There was no reply so she ran a hand across her tousled hair and shuffled back to the darkened room next door. Well, she had to have a steady hand for tomorrow’s PMs and a good night’s sleep was called for. Whatever her darling was up to, he’d tell her in time. Graham West’s disappearance had galvanized the lot of them into action, but she still had the routine of daily deaths to attend to. Not every cadaver that was pushed into her post-mortem room would turn out to be a murder victim. And, thankfully, not every one had engendered such complications as that of the late Duncan Forbes.

  Solly hardly heard the living room door close as Rosie left him. He was gazing at a chart he had constructed. It showed the river Clyde from the area beyond the Science Centre, then the curves of its winding course twisting into the city and away to Glasgow Green where the riverman lived. George Parsonage had impressed him as a man who held himself in readiness for any sort of tragedy. He could be at the scene of an accident in minutes. What kind of life must he have, on call at every hour of the day and night? But then, Solly mused, he had been born into that way of life and seemed to have inherited a sense of duty to his fellow man. How different was the mentality of the killer! Whoever had dispatched Joseph Reilly had not a shred of compassion in his soul. And Jennifer Hammond? Duncan Forbes? Was anyone lying awake tonight, their conscience burning with the acid of remorse?

  Solly’s eyes took in the river with its meandering shape and those black circles dotted around its banks. That was where Forbes had been fished out of the water, a stone’s throw from the Crowne Plaza Hotel; that was Jennifer Hammond’s flat overlooking the river and, between them both, caught on a curve, Graham West’s penthouse. Solly recalled the view from the man’s home: he would have been able to see everything up and down the river from that position. Jennifer Hammond’s view was more restricted but one could make out the Kingston Bridge with its never-ending traffic and catch a glimpse of the silver spire of the Science Centre’s tower. He let the cursor take the map further east until he saw the circle that signified Carlton Place. It was just beyond the George V road bridge. Anyone could take a walk along there and disappear into the maelstrom of pedestrians in the heart of the city. Clyde Street was minutes away, then Argyle Street another short walk. Solly had dismissed any notion of a boat: West’s own craft was moored in Kip Marina, way down the Clyde. The boats lying at the edge of the river were restricted to ferrying punters up and down to the shops at Braehead, he’d discovered, or out into the open waters beyond the estuary.

  It all pointed to West. Then why should he be sitting here in the wee small hours, gazing at a computer screen as if it would somehow tell him something to the contrary? Was he simply looking for difficulties, as Lorimer had suggested? But, try as he might, the psychologist could not rid himself of the belief that Graham West was running away from more than the retribution that would come from being found guilty of murder.

  CHAPTER 48

  It was a morning straight out of Chaucer: ‘… as fresh as is the month of May,’ she whispered to the still air. All it needed was the young squire himself to come riding out of the mists. This May morning was sweet indeed with a fragrance lifting off the long grasses and a haze in the air that promised a hot day to come. Maggie crumbled the remnants of last night’s scones onto the bird table, shivering slightly in her flimsy dressing gown. Her ankles were wet with dew and she’d need to discard her slippers on the doormat or risk footprints all over the kitchen floor. But it was nice being out here before the day began. She hugged her arms tight around her chest, listening as a blackbird poured out his song from somewhere in the shrubbery. Their garden was overgrown and neglected, a haven for birds and wildlife, but a point of raised eyebrows from their more fastidious neighbours. Maggie always blitzed it during the long school holidays in a passion of guilt, then forgot all about it for much of the year.

  Today she had several free periods since the seniors were on exam leave. It would give her time to catch up with the mountain of administration that had accumulated in her classroom cupboard. A real tidy up was needed there too, she thought to herself, glancing ruefully at the thistles swaying in the breeze. Then she stood quite still as a flash of red and yellow caught her eye: a goldfinch alighting on a clump of teasels, making the spiky plant bend under its tiny weight. Maggie watched intently, wishing her husband was up and about to see the wee bird but she had left him slumbering soundly. Poor soul, she thought. This case was taking its toll on him. If only he’d been promoted to superintendent, then maybe his caseload would have lightened a bit. But he’d have worked just as hard, a small voice scolded her. And Jo Grant would still have been in his team. She’d done nothing about that overheard telephone call, or the note in Bill’s pocket. A sense of foreboding that she recognized as sheer cowardice had kept her from uttering any questions to her husband. Since her home-coming he’d been more than attentive. And these fevered nights of lovemaking were surely at odds with a man who was having an affair with his colleague?

  The finch flew off and Maggie watched its bright wings until it was out of sight.

  ‘Fresh-
firecoal chestnut-falls, finches’ wings,’ she quoted softly to the garden. The poet-priest had had an eye for the tiniest detail. Maybe she’d give Pied Beauty a whirl with the new third years after exam leave was over, show them one of her bird books.

  With the bird’s departure came the sense of awakening and a need to begin her day. She’d put the kettle on, take Bill a cup of tea. Then his day could begin too, she thought, and with it the urgent hunt for the man they believed to be a killer.

  Lorimer drove into the car park with one eye on the lines of vehicles. Good. He was in before Mitchison. That was something at any rate. He’d speak to Iain MacKenzie before anyone else. A quick glance at his watch told him it was eight o’clock in Sydney. West’s plane would still be in the air. They had two more hours to arrange a welcoming party, if they could.

  He sprinted up the steps two at a time and strode along the corridor to his office. One of several notes on his desk told him what he didn’t want to know: no authorization had yet been given to stop Graham West from entering Australia and continuing to wherever he might choose to go. The note was marked with the time: six-thirty this morning. Maybe things would have progressed since then, he thought, grasping his phone and tapping in the Fiscal’s number.

  ‘Good morning.’ Iain MacKenzie sounded cheery. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard yet, then?’

  ‘What? Good news, I hope?’

  ‘Aye, you could say that. We’ve got cooperation from the Sydney police. They’ve arranged for officers to meet West’s plane. They’ve got a good description of him.’

  ‘Right,’ Lorimer replied shortly. ‘You’ll keep me posted?’

  ‘Naturally,’ MacKenzie’s voice betrayed an excitement that Lorimer suddenly realized he didn’t share as he shut his mobile.

  What was wrong with him? Why this sudden feeling of deflation? They’d arrest the man, return him to the UK and then have him up to face the charges here in Glasgow. So why wasn’t he sharing Iain MacKenzie’s jubilation?

  Lorimer sat back and leafed through his notes. Malcolm Adams was still missing and an overnight search had proved fruitless. Alec Barr had cooperated as fully as he could, to Lorimer’s way of thinking. Catherine Devoy had been questioned but, according to Solly, she was keeping something from them.

  Solly. The fly in the ointment. As usual the psychologist had given him some disquieting moments. All that stuff about the bags of designer menswear for a charity shop.

  Lorimer picked up the other notes lying on his desk. They’d confirmed the fingerprints on both sets of plastic bags belonged to the suspect, and there was something more: several sets of West’s prints had been identified from the ones lifted from Jennifer Hammond’s bedroom. It all looked neat and tidy. West appeared to be in the frame for everything. But what had happened to Adams, and, while he was at it, what was the latest news on their other ‘missing person’, Michael Turner?

  For a long moment Lorimer stared into space. That’s when it had all begun: the night of Turner’s going-away party. He looked up suddenly, a new light in his eyes. Maybe he’d been seeing this from the wrong angle all along. That night had been overshadowed by Duncan Forbes’ murder, but perhaps they should have focused on the young man who had been the centre of attention hours before. Turner had flown to New York, leaving behind him a girlfriend who didn’t seem heartbroken by his departure. He’d also left behind the man who had been something of a mentor to him by all accounts, but who was dead before that night had ended. What had they found out about Turner? A young man with lots of partnership potential, Barr had told him. Going places, he’d said. Well he’d gone places, sure enough, but where they were remained a mystery.

  What if … ? The thoughts rumbled around his brain as Lorimer considered the man who had flown into oblivion. What if he’d been seconded to America for some other reason? Maggie was always banging on about incompetent teachers who ended up in highly paid administration posts away from the chalk face. What if Turner had been sent away? Had that thought occurred to any of them? Lorimer played around with the idea. The more he thought it over, the more it made some sort of sense. They had only Barr’s word for it, after all, that Turner was going to have made an impact on their American counterparts. Duncan Forbes, who had known the young man best of all, was no longer here to confirm that statement. But had they even thought to ask anyone else? Had he made the fatal mistake of deferring to the authority of the Forbes Macgregor partners? Maybe it was time to ask more questions about Michael Turner. And this time he’d be asking people who had no reason to tell him anything other than the truth.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector.’ Adrian Millhouse shook Lorimer’s hand and the DCI motioned for him to sit down. Millhouse had responded immediately to his call, Lorimer noted with satisfaction.

  ‘This is just a chat, Mr Millhouse,’ Lorimer began. ‘Confidential. No hidden cameras.’ He grinned, relaxing as the older man smiled at his joke. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Michael Turner. Now,’ he lifted a hand to stop Milhouse from uttering any sympathetic platitudes, ‘it’s a warts-and-all picture I want you to give me.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Millhouse shrugged. ‘Whatever I can do.’

  ‘First of all, were you surprised at Michael Turner’s promotion?’

  Adrian Millhouse stared at Lorimer for a long moment then nodded. ‘No, not at all,’ he replied. ‘It came as no surprise to hear he was going away to Kirkby Russell. We all thought that.’

  ‘When you say we do you mean all of the staff?’

  ‘Well, most of the ones I talked to. And being in human resources I get to see plenty of them.’

  ‘So what was the general opinion of his promotion?’

  For a moment Millhouse looked thoughtful. ‘I was surprised he went overseas. It was felt he was good partnership material for the Glasgow office. Duncan had more or less said that Michael would be his successor. Such a waste of talent.’ Millhouse shook his head.

  Lorimer nodded silently. That confirmed his own suspicions. There had to be a reason for getting rid of the young accountant. They were still keeping up the idea of Turner’s death even now that NYPD had confirmed the young man had made contact with them. The US police had agreed to complete secrecy over Turner’s existence meantime. Still, it smote his conscience to hear Millhouse speaking in hushed tones.

  ‘Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but I felt Michael was a bit out of his depth,’ Millhouse went on. ‘With Jennifer, I mean.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, he took it a lot more seriously than she did.’ Millhouse sat back and bit his lip. ‘I hate to say it but Jennifer had done the rounds with plenty of them in the office, if you know what I mean.’

  Lorimer nodded. His initial impression of the woman had been of her flirtatiousness. She’d been unable to resist trying out her undoubted charms even on a senior officer from Strathclyde Police. Jennifer Hammond had been a dangerous sort of woman and somehow her death seemed inextricably linked to the men in her life.

  ‘Who else in Forbes Macgregor had she been seeing?’ Lorimer asked.

  Adrian Millhouse sighed deeply, ‘Well now,’ he began and started to count off names on his fingers. Lorimer listened intently.

  ‘Graham West,’ Lorimer told Solly on the phone. ‘It comes back to him time after time! He’d had an affair with Jennifer Hammond right before she was supposed to be seeing Michael Turner. According to Millhouse, she’d screwed just about every eligible man in the office at one time or another.’

  ‘What about Duncan Forbes?’

  Lorimer frowned. ‘That was the funny thing. Forbes seems to have disliked her. Tried to have her sacked more than once for her behaviour.’

  ‘So why wasn’t she sent packing?’

  ‘It was Alec Barr who intervened,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Millhouse reckoned Barr had a soft spot for her.’

  In the ensuing silence the DCI could imagine Solly’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. And he’d be right to have doubts ab
out the senior partner’s motives. Had Barr also been one of Jennifer’s paramours? He recalled the woman’s bedroom done up like a high-class tart’s boudoir. But she hadn’t been a stupid woman, far from it. She had known whose telephone call had alerted the police to the body floating in the Clyde. Without that impassioned plea for help there would have been nothing to show that Duncan Forbes’ death was anything other than a sad accident. Yet, for some reason, Jennifer Hammond had chosen not to reveal the caller’s identity. Why? And who had closed her mouth for good? All at once it seemed to be of the utmost importance that they knew the whereabouts of certain key players on each of those nights.

  The woman who answered the door looked up at him nervously. Her gnarled hand was on the chain, ready to take it off if Lorimer proved to be the person he claimed to be.

  ‘Mrs Barr?’

  The woman nodded, taking her time to read his warrant card thoroughly. She had every right to be cautious, Lorimer told himself. An older lady like herself was vulnerable to all sorts of conmen who might call during the daytime.

  Satisfied that he was indeed DCI William Lorimer, Ella Barr admitted him to her home.

  Twenty minutes later Lorimer emerged from Barr’s house, three cups of tea and a piece of homemade fruit loaf inside him. Ella Barr had given him something to think about, though whether she was aware of that fact was highly doubtful. No, Mr Barr had not returned home after the party for the young man. And, no, he had not been at home for those other two nights. Alec had been away on business. He was away on business such a lot, she’d told Lorimer proudly, the handle of her porcelain teacup gripped between bony fingers. Looking at her, Lorimer reckoned the woman must be at least fifteen years Barr’s senior. In stark contrast to the redhead who had led them all such a merry dance, Alec Barr’s wife was every inch the lady with her carefully permed white hair and cashmere crew-neck sweater. Even her pearls looked real. A quick glance around the drawing room while she was fetching them tea had told Lorimer a great deal. The place was an antique dealer’s dream. Collections of ivories vied for pride of place with three Fabergé eggs; every piece of spindly-legged furniture was upholstered in pale silks to match the drapes hanging from the oriole windows and the carved shelves were simply littered with the sort of Chinese artefacts he thought he’d only ever see in the Burrell Museum. The place was not so much a home as a magpie’s repository, a fabulously wealthy magpie, at that. Again, he couldn’t help contrasting the room with the mock-oriental pleasure palace that had been Jennifer Hammond’s bedroom.