The Riverman (book 4)

by Alex Gray

  Adams was bound and gagged. His slight frame was nothing to Barr who slung him across his shoulders and carried him out across the narrow strip that divided the shed from the river. With one almighty effort, Barr threw the man’s body from him into the swirling waters. It landed with a splash and he watched it with satisfaction as it floated outwards into the current.

  ‘What the—’ he grunted as a hand shoved him aside and sent him sprawling across the stony bank. He was aware of a second splash of water as a man dived into the river and headed towards Adams. Picking himself up, Alec Barr began to run back up the towpath, away from the water’s edge, away from the scene unfolding below him. This wasn’t meant to happen! Where the hell had that guy come from?

  Cursing, Barr turned into the main road and ran back towards the footbridge that would take him across the river and into Govan. Once there, he’d flag down a taxi.

  The sound of police sirens made him look up. One car had already screeched to a halt. A tall figure that he recognized emerged from the vehicle and began shouting at him to stop, but Barr was running across the bridge now, running and running as if his life depended upon it.

  The river below him swirled menacingly from the force of the swollen current. He could hear footsteps clattering behind him and, looking up, he saw two uniformed policemen waiting at the far end of the bridge.

  ‘Give it up, Barr,’ Lorimer yelled. ‘It’s over!’

  Barr whirled around, baring his teeth at the man who was gaining on him, one step at a time. He snarled in response. He’d not be taken like a cornered beast.

  In one quick movement he vaulted the railings and threw himself into the waters below.

  Lorimer reached the middle of the footbridge just in time to see the man’s body tossed by the racing currents. He watched, aghast, as Barr flailed against the might of the river and then disappeared in a wallow of white foam.

  The riverman was always careful when taking bodies out of the water. One slip and they’d be gone, sinking into the river’s murky depths. This one was heavy, water-logged and weighed down by death. They’d do a post-mortem. It was the routine thing to do, as well as being a legal requirement, but George Parsonage knew what the cause of death would be. Call it suicide, if you like, he thought as though he were addressing the pathologists at Glasgow City Mortuary.

  He barely gave the body of Alec Barr a second glance as it lay in the folds of his boat. He knew this man’s story. He’d taken the easy way out, as many before him had done. Lorimer would fill him in with the details in time, no doubt. But for now as he rowed back to the van waiting on the shore, he could content himself with his own part of the story.

  At least he’d saved one man’s life today.

  CHAPTER 51

  The face that looked down at him was like an angel’s, Malcolm thought as he drifted back to consciousness. But it was a face wet with tears, although the smile was all sweetness. Behind her, he was aware of other figures, other faces that he seemed to know, but it was on Lesley’s face that he chose to fix his gaze.

  ‘Oh, Malcolm,’ was all she said, but in those two words he knew what a fool he’d been. There was no reproach, no condemnation, just love. He tried to smile back and sit up, but the pain drove him down again to the bank of pillows under his head. Somewhere he heard a nurse speak and the other people in the room disappeared, leaving him alone with Lesley.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘so sorry for everything.’

  ‘But why, Malcolm?’ Lesley was shaking her head. ‘Why did you get mixed up in all of that?’

  ‘Didn’t want you to be left … without anything,’ he murmured, every word a stab in his chest.

  ‘All I ever wanted was you.’ Lesley was crying again, and now he was aware of her hand in his, squeezing it tight. He tried to respond but the tiredness overwhelmed him and he began to drift back into that blessed sleep.

  With an effort Malcolm gazed up at his wife and smiled.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, the words faint in the air between them, before he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

  Lorimer closed the door as he left the room.

  ‘At least Malcolm Adams will never be charged with conspiracy to murder,’ he said to the man beside him. ‘That’s one thing his poor widow will be spared.’

  ‘Yes,’ remarked Solly, nodding into his beard, ‘Lesley Adams, she—’ Solly stopped for a moment and a frown passed across his face. ‘I had a feeling,’ he paused mid-sentence, then looked up at Lorimer whose blue eyes were searching him intently. ‘A feeling as though something had passed between them in that room. Something that was sustaining her. I find it hard to explain.’

  ‘Try me,’ Lorimer offered.

  ‘Something in her expression before he died. Did you not notice that?’

  Lorimer shook his head and continued to walk down the hospital corridor. Life, death: it was a mystery that never failed to amaze him. Adams had been drawn into this whole sorry mess through the simple fear that he’d leave his family all the poorer, knowing he’d been living on borrowed time. But their lives, and the lives of so many others, would never be the same again.

  He sighed. ‘Catherine Devoy’s statement seems to ring true now. Alec Barr was her Svengali, right enough: the brains behind the corruption beginning with their money-laundering schemes.’

  ‘What made them do it?’ Solly asked.

  ‘Jacobs’ string of bookies offered too much temptation for them.’ Lorimer shook his head. ‘But for Michael Turner’s observant eye and Duncan Forbes’ honest intentions, they’d probably still be at it.’

  Lorimer turned into the main corridor that would take them out of the hospital. He felt the sudden need to breathe some fresh air. A feeling of lightness washed over him as he thought of a place that would fill his nostrils with fresh sweetness. Perhaps it was time to come clean and tell Maggie exactly what he’d been up to.

  The table in the corner was set for two, the white napery and crystal glasses sparkling against the candlelight. Carefully he drew out one of the chairs, ushering the woman beside him to sit. As his hand brushed hers, he smiled at her quizzical expression.

  ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ she asked at last. ‘Something special or is it just to celebrate the end of the case?’

  Lorimer sat opposite, smiling still. ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he began then, as Maggie’s face showed alarm, he laughed. ‘It’s nothing bad, don’t worry! Here,’ he said, and passed a manila envelope across the table. ‘It was meant to be a surprise for our anniversary but I thought you deserved to know about it now.’

  Still puzzled, Maggie pulled out the stapled pages and studied them. The first page showed a colour photograph of a white cottage nestling beside a curving bay. The description below told her that this was Leiter Cottage on Fishnish Bay, Mull.

  ‘We’re going there for three weeks,’ Lorimer said. ‘I’m owed extra leave and I thought we could go right after you stop school for the summer.’

  ‘This is brilliant!’ Maggie was turning the pages, skim-reading the details. ‘Where did you find it?’

  Lorimer laughed. ‘Belongs to Jo Grant’s aunty. I know you wanted a quiet place somewhere like that. We’ve been trying to keep it a secret from you for ages so it would be a surprise.’

  ‘It’s that all right,’ Maggie replied. And if her tone held more dryness than the moment afforded she wasn’t going to tell him why. Sudden tears filled her eyes and she bent down to fish in her handbag for a hanky. How could she have been so stupid? Silly, idiotic suspicions. An over-active imagination after all, just as her old mum would have said if Maggie had told her.

  ‘Hey! No need to get all weepy. It’s not such a big deal.’

  ‘But you never do surprises,’ Maggie protested from the depths of her handkerchief.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s time I did,’ Lorimer answered. ‘Stops me becoming too predictable.’

  Maggie reached for his hand across the table. ‘Know
what?’ she told him, ‘I like predictable.’

  EPILOGUE

  The gravestone faced the hills. Carved into its granite surface were the words, ‘Beloved husband’. Liz saw them through clear eyes today. Now the time for weeping was over and she could remember Duncan with all the affection in the world. A small wind blew the grasses in a field beyond the cemetery, making her look up at the clouds scudding past. Was he there, somewhere, just beyond her sight? As she gazed past the headstone she imagined his voice calling to her just as he’d called every day after work. ‘Liz? It’s me. I’m home.’ And somehow Liz Forbes knew that Duncan was at home in her heart and that her memories would no longer be tainted by uncertainties.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank the following people for their help in researching this novel and making it come to pass in many other ways:

  George Parsonage, for his unique insight into the ways of the river Clyde and for sharing so many of his experiences; Dr Marjorie Black for her unfailing help in checking all things forensic; the late Superintendent Ronnie Beattie; Marjory MacKellar, Douglas MacKellar and Arthur Hedley for letting me use their riverside properties; Nick Stimson, duty manager of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, Glasgow; my husband for his expert knowledge and for his huge support throughout; my agent, the wonderful Jenny Brown and to Caroline Hogg and the team at Little, Brown, especially David Shelley for his faith in me.

  Now read an extract of Alex Gray’s next gripping novel featuring DCI Lorimer

  Pitch Black

  Published in April 2008

  Sphere hardback

  978-1-84744-068-6

  PROLOGUE

  When the car rounded the corner of the road, she gasped. Up until now the cliffs on either side had masked the skyline so she was shocked by the streak of orange like a gash across the horizon in front of her bleeding from the blackness. It took all her concentration to keep the vehicle from veering towards the sheer wall of rock on her left. A quick glance showed how near she’d come to clipping the kerb and she shuddered as the wheel turned under her grip. The slimy walls glowed with sudden reflected light; she’d been close enough to see tiny plant fronds uncurling from the cracks that ran up and down the cliff side.

  It was better to slow down a little, let the fright of that panicked swerve subside before she dared take another look.

  A huge sigh rose from her chest and she felt the tears prick under the sore places of her eyelids, which she’d rubbed constantly during the drive north. The reassuring hum of the engine and the straight road ahead gave her courage to turn her head a fraction.

  Now she could make out dim hills, darker shapes against the ink-blue sky with its burgeoning shafts of dawnlight a beacon of hope.

  Mornings had never felt like this before.

  Here was a new day beginning and with it the excitement of a million possibilities. It was like the first day of creation, newly-minted, given to her as a gift. All the other mornings of her life seemed to have begun with despair.

  Her fingers were numb from gripping the steering wheel so tightly and she flexed first one hand then the other, slowing the car down so she could take peeks at the sky and the water. There was no artificial light here, just cat’s eyes reflecting the full beam as she tried to keep to her side of the narrow road. Few vehicles had been travelling south on the opposite lane and her car seemed the only one taking this night-time route away from the city, so she gave a start when the lorry’s shape appeared in the rear-view mirror. It rumbled behind her and she slowed down to let it pass. There was a swish of tyres and then the flanks of the lorry passed her by like a looming grey shadow. She watched it move away from her, then it cut back into the left lane after a decent interval. The sudden flash of the lorry’s hazard warning lights thanked her for allowing it to overtake. She opened her eyes wide in surprise; when last had she been shown such courtesy? That it should be here in this lonely place and from an unseen stranger was surely a good omen. She must be on the right road.

  Now the sky was lightening even more and pale grey clouds merged into the yellow patches above the horizon’s rim.

  A bird flew past, slowly winging its way inland, making her suddenly aware that there was life outside this cocoon of engine noise and road and gears. Just up ahead there was a black and white pole indicating a parking place, and she drove in and stopped.

  She gave a half-turn to the ignition and rolled the window down, letting in a rush of cold air, then breathed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment against the gusts of wind. It was quiet but not silent. The first sound she heard was the lapping of water against the edge of the shore, like a living creature trying to break free from the deep masses that threatened to hold it back. She listened, mesmerised, then heard another sound, a peeping bird somewhere out of sight in the bushes, then an answering call further ahead. Straining her eyes did not help; the birds were invisible in this early light. The cool air chilled her skin and set her sneezing. A quick rummage in her jacket pocket found only used and still-sodden paper hankies so she sniffled instead, then rolled the window back up. There had been no time to look for her driving gloves before the journey so she tucked her fingers up into her sleeves to warm them, the way she’d done as a child.

  A memory of her mother suddenly came back to her. It had been one of the days when she’d been brought home from school. The day had started out badly at home with a sore throat and difficulty eating her porridge, then became worse when no one had taken her seriously and she’d been forced out, to make the cold walk down to the bus stop. The shivers had begun as she’d sat wedged between a man in a big overcoat and a woman with sharp elbows; the only seats left on the bus were the bench seats facing the exit. Each time the doors of the bus had sighed open she’d been exposed to the cold air and had felt trickles of sweat against her flesh.

  Later her mother had fetched her home with cuddles that she knew were born of remorse. She’d tucked her hands into Mum’s coat pockets then, sitting on her knee as the bus trundled back out of the city.

  Now Mum was long gone and her own children were simply memories of what might have been.

  On the brightening horizon she could make out the colours on the distant hills, tweedy browns and greens with darker patches that told of clefts where waterfalls might run. She glanced at the fuel gauge. It was nearly empty. It was not a road she knew well but there must be a filling station at the next village. A signpost not far back had indicated it was only sixteen miles away. Then what? a little voice asked. She had no answer, just the knowledge that she had taken the only way she could. A bed and breakfast place, probably, once she had travelled further north. And it would be wise to take out more money from a cash machine if she could find one. After that she’d have to think about the long-term future. But not yet, not just yet.

  Turning on the ignition, she released the handbrake and let the car roll back on to the road. The fresh air had woken up something inside her, a feeling that had become lost through all those months and years. How long had she been recoiling from that voice and those hands? Trying to avoid the blows and the weight of fear that had smothered so much of the woman she used to be. Now she felt like a girl again, a young, wild thing, free of any responsibilities with the whole world still to savour.

  It was not yet tomorrow so there were still some hours before she needed to make her plans. So far, escape had been sufficient. What was behind her could be dealt with in time. His body would still be lying where she had let it fall. The blood would have congealed by now, and rigor would have stiffened his limbs. She had left no traces to tell a story, of that she was certain; nor were there any friends or family to come around enquiring about her. Perhaps there would be a call from the club in a few days, or maybe the smell of a decomposing body would alert a passing stranger. And if she should be found? If tomorrow brought questions and blame, then what would she do?

  There was no easy answer. It was something she would think about later. Once the sun was high i
n the sky and the road had taken her into the wilderness. She yawned suddenly then felt her chest relax, her hands lighter on the steering wheel as the road disappeared under the twin beams. Shadows all around still shrouded the world.

  Everything would be fine. It was not yet tomorrow, after all.

  CHAPTER 1

  The man trained his binoculars on the bird, his heart soaring with the sea eagle as its white tail feathers came into view, huge wings hardly moving, floating upon unseen currents of air. He watched the eagle fly into the distant haze until it was a mere speck, and then let his glasses fall with a sigh of pleasure. What a sight to see on their last day!

  They’d decided to picnic in the Great Glen, making the most of the fine weather that had blessed their three-week holiday in Mull, and Lorimer had been scanning the skies hopefully all afternoon. Now he had that sighting and it was a treasured memory he could take back with him to the city.

  ‘How many pairs are nesting this year? Did that fellow say?’ Maggie asked him, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm. Her gaze still followed that dot on the clouds, imagining the bird seeking some prey to take to its growing chicks.

  ‘Gordon? He reckoned they had five pairs out at Torloisk this year. But nobody said anything about sea eagles over this way. Golden eagles, yes, but not these boys,’ Lorimer replied, looking down at Maggie’s earnest expression with a smile. ‘Anyway, how about some food? I’m starving.’

  Maggie wrenched her gaze away, thoughts of eagles fading as she looked down at their unopened hamper. It had been a good idea bringing it with them on holiday, especially to a self-catering cottage. Mary Grant had left the basics to start them off, but the old lady knew they’d want to stock up with local produce and so had left a list of suppliers from Craignure to Tobermory and beyond. It had been fun buying eggs and fresh vegetables from farms that were off the beaten track, finding other places of interest like the ancient stone broch while they were at it. Secretly Maggie suspected that was exactly what the old lady had in mind when she’d left the names and locations of out-of-the-way farms and crofts. But the main town on the island, Tobermory, had been the real treasure trove for picnics. Now Maggie unwrapped some rolls and handed one to her husband.