by Alex Gray
Usually Eddie didn’t give a thought to what would happen to the stuff or how it was used. That wasn’t his concern. All he was interested in was the bulging brown envelope that he’d receive at the end of the day. The thrills were an additional perk of the job. Still, there were times when he wondered about some of these punters. Take this guy, for instance, with his flashy car. He was a handsome guy, too; didn’t look like he’d have any bother pulling the women. So why go to all the bother of buying large quantities of a date rape drug? He shrugged absently. Other people’s tastes were none of his concern. The man in the Porsche shivered as he left the shadows of the railway bridge. He disliked all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. It felt demeaning to have to act as an errand boy, and the near-miss with the red estate had given him his first intimation of just what sort of dangerous game he was playing. Up until now the whole thing had been anonymous, but as he drove slowly through the Renfrewshire villages he realized there was at least one more person involved who could identify him if anything were to go wrong.
He took one hand off the steering wheel and fingered the package by his side. What if he were to open the electric window and toss the thing over a hedge? But what would he do then? He had already considered the consequences of such an action and knew with a sinking heart that he would carry out his part of the scheme. Even when he was aware of the lives that it would ruin.
PART TWO
April
CHAPTER 9
‘Yes!’ The champagne cork popped to the sound of corporate laughter and there was a general clinking of glasses as the waiters made their rounds.
‘Here’s to you, Michael,’ Alec Barr raised his voice, momentarily causing the people in the room to turn his way. ‘On behalf of the partners and staff of Forbes Macgregor I’d like to wish you every success in your new venture.’ Barr held his flute aloft. ‘To Michael,’ he added, a smile of satisfaction on his face as the toast was repeated on everyone’s lips.
Michael Turner, flushed with drink, beamed at his superior. ‘Thanks very much. Thank you. I’ll miss you lot.’ He grinned again, sweeping his glass in a wide gesture to encompass the friends and colleagues gathered around him.
‘Aye, sure,’ someone commented. ‘You’ll be too busy spending all those dollar bills to think about your old mates!’ More laughter rang out, then a tall redhead came forward and linked her arm through his, leading Michael away from the throng.
‘Ah, what it is to be young and starting out all over again,’ Duncan Forbes nodded his head and smiled warmly in his young colleague’s direction.
‘Some champagne, sir?’ the waiter offered, the napkin-swathed bottle already tilted towards Duncan’s empty glass.
‘No thank you. Orange juice, if you have it, will be fine.’
‘Not even tonight, Duncan?’ Alec Barr’s tone was a mixture of amused benevolence and gentle persuasion.
‘Not even tonight,’ Duncan Forbes replied.
‘Ah, Duncan, can I have a quick word?’ Catherine Devoy had glided towards her two fellow partners, her pink suede heels noiseless on the executive carpeting. Duncan inclined his head and followed Catherine who led them into a quiet corner of the room. Alec Barr watched them move away, his eyes following them closely as if he needed to imprint their images upon his memory. ‘Duncan and Catherine,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Duncan and Catherine.’
Outside the hotel, the row of lime trees swayed as the wind caught them, their branches heeling over in a medley of creaks and groans. Even the tall grey lamp-standards rattled under the onslaught of the storm, causing the lights within the white globes to flicker nervously. Deep shadows fell across the entrance to the hotel, contrasting with the lozenges of light from the hospitality suites on the first floor. Below, the water churned black and cold, the occasional reflection glittering on the wind-whipped crests. Cars passing between the river and the shadowy glass building were forced to creep slowly over the speed bumps on their way towards the hotel car park.
Liz Forbes turned off the ignition and shivered inside her sheepskin coat. What the hell was she doing here? The decision had been a moment of utter madness. At first she’d told herself it would look like a good wifely gesture to arrive late in the evening on the pretext of driving Duncan home, but now it simply seemed idiotic. There was no need for her to be here at all; Duncan had his own car parked in the Crowne Plaza car park and there were always taxis laid on after a party.
The woman unbuckled her seat belt and contemplated the lines of darkened vehicles parked on either side of her. Inside they’d be laughing and drinking, having fun on young Michael’s last night. Her mouth tightened as she had a vision of Duncan chatting companionably to the women. They’d all be smartened up for tonight, a bit of glitter relieving their ubiquitous black office suits. Liz craned her neck to see her reflection in the rear-view mirror: a tired-looking woman with wisps of wind-blown hair gazed back at her, the hastily applied lipstick already smudged at the corners of her mouth. Her heart sank. It wasn’t really so difficult to imagine Duncan preferring one of the younger, sexier females to that face, now was it?
That second letter had really clinched it for Liz, its reasonable tone reminding her of Duncan’s continuing infidelity, suggesting times and places too. She’d been frantic in her search for his desk diary, checking the dates against those nights when she’d supposed her husband working late in the office. They’d all tallied. Was it another sign of mischief-making? Or was the writer of the letters really telling her of something already known to others within Forbes Macgregor? The thoughts seemed to stifle her and Liz opened the door, gulping in the cold air. A short walk would help, maybe, she told herself. Then she’d drive off home and Duncan would never know she had been there at all. The lights flicked twice as she pointed the remote to lock the doors then, taking another deep breath, Liz Forbes made her way out of the car park and headed along the grey ribbon of cycle path that bordered the river.
She stopped beside the swirling waters, looking down into the inky depths. Some might see this as a romantic place, the lights dancing across the black surface, but Liz found herself glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if someone might loom up at her out of the night.
Her steps quickened on the walk back and she paused only once to look up at the glass-fronted windows where the party was taking place. A figure moved towards the window as she glanced upwards. Had she been seen? Liz moved into the shadows again, almost tripping in her haste to regain the safety of the car. At last she was sitting in the Mercedes once more, fingers fumbling the key into the ignition. As the long sleek shape of the car glided past the hotel, Liz knew only a sense of relief. Nobody would ever know how close she had come to making a complete fool of herself.
Behind her, the angled head of a CCTV camera continued to follow Liz’s progress, having already recorded her brief but visible walk along the river.
The last car door slammed shut, the doorman waving the revellers off before stepping inside the warmth of the hotel, the glass door closing behind him silently. At last he could knock off. That party had been going on for hours, folk wandering outside and back into the corporate area all blooming night. All the lights were still on in the mezzanine and would be until the cleaners came on duty. It was a right waste of electricity but none of his damned business. So long as the pay cheque kept on coming he’d keep his mouth shut.
The doorman did not turn to look out at the night or the faint mist that was rising from the river. There was no one to see the empty path or the wind catching the dead leaves and casting them upwards. Not a soul moved downstream or looked over the cold railing to where the river’s detritus bobbed darkly. There were no eyes to discern the shape that floated away from the embankment or watch its progress into the swirling waters of the Clyde. It was as if nothing had happened to disturb the ebb and flow of the waves moving between the banks of the river.
But there had been eyes to see that shape tumbling downwards and ears that had heard the muffl
ed splash below. And somewhere in the city there was at least one sleepless soul replaying that moment over and over again.
CHAPTER 10
‘You know who it is, then,’ George Parsonage said. It wasn’t a question. DCI Lorimer wouldn’t be here with Dr Rosie Fergusson and the Procurator Fiscal without a good reason.
‘Had a tip-off,’ Lorimer muttered, his eyes upon the sodden corpse lying on the quayside. The examination tent had been erected so that no passers-by could catch sight of the body, especially the press who would only add to the problem the DCI now faced.
George nodded. There would be a name and a history to this man lying dead on the banks of his river. Lorimer would let him know in due course if he asked. But George didn’t always want to know. Now that there was nothing more he could do for the victim his thoughts turned to Glasgow Green where his small fleet of boats awaited his attention and from where he might be called out again.
He cast off and let the boat drift with the tide, the figures on the bank becoming less significant as he plied his oars upstream.
‘D’you think it’s him?’ Iain MacKenzie, the Procurator Fiscal, looked at the senior investigating officer, intently waiting for a reply. Rosie Fergusson glanced up from where she knelt by the body.
Lorimer nodded at them both. ‘Certain. Fits our caller’s description to a T. Aye.’ His mouth formed a tight line against his unshaven face. ‘It’s Duncan Forbes all right.’
‘Looks like he’s only been in the water a few hours, maybe eight, or so,’ Rosie said.
‘Did he drown, though?’ the Fiscal asked.
Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘Million dollar question, isn’t it? Need to see what the PM shows. There’s no other obvious sign of injury though, is there?’
‘And the caller told us we’d find his body here,’ Lorimer mused slowly to himself. ‘Said there was something we should know.’
‘I wonder just what that was,’ the Fiscal remarked.
‘That’s what we’d like to know. The line went dead before the caller had time to finish speaking. At least that’s what it sounded like on the tape.’
‘And?’ Iain MacKenzie fixed his eyes on Lorimer’s face, waiting for him to elucidate.
‘It was a woman. Said we’d find Duncan Forbes in the Clyde near the Crowne Plaza Hotel. Gave a full description of his appearance and what he was wearing.’
‘Is that all? I mean, he could have fallen in. Jumped in, for that matter.’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘There was more to it than that. She was crying. Saying she was sorry. She didn’t mean it to happen.’ Lorimer looked up the Clyde towards Bell’s Bridge. High above the river a skein of geese flew eastwards, their cries muted by the morning traffic’s roar. He watched them until their flight became almost invisible against the pale grey clouds. They would come and go every morning, prompted by some ancient impulse to follow the same route between the estuary and their chosen feeding grounds. What, he wondered, had prompted the early morning telephone call that had them standing here over the body of Duncan Forbes?
‘Sudden, suspicious and unexplained,’ MacKenzie broke into his thoughts.
Lorimer nodded. ‘It might be a straightforward fatal accident but we wouldn’t have come down here unless we’d thought the call was genuine, would we?’ he replied, nodding towards the officers who were presently unfolding a body bag.
‘Or me.’ Rosie grimaced. ‘Who’s playing silly buggers with us, Lorimer?’
‘Well, not his wife anyway. When she was contacted she was beside herself. Said her husband hadn’t come home last night. Wanted to know what was going on. And, no, before you ask, Mrs Forbes has a completely different voice from our mystery caller.’
‘Well, let me get back to the mortuary. I’ll have this chap seen to as a matter of priority.’ Rosie smiled wanly, picked up her bag and fell into step beside Iain MacKenzie, away from the tall policeman who seemed in no hurry to leave the quayside.
Lorimer stared into the swirling waters of the Clyde. What had the riverman pulled out? A murder victim? Or some unfortunate soul whose last moments had been seen by the woman who’d called them? His reverie was disturbed by the sound of a zip encasing the corpse in the watertight bag. He looked down at the dark shape on the ground. Only hours before, this had been a living, breathing human being. What had happened to bring him to this?
Glasgow City Mortuary had the appearance of a small museum, dwarfed by the taller buildings of the High Court. Apart from the plaque fixed beside the entrance, a passer-by would never attach any morbid significance to the modest Victorian building.
Elizabeth Forbes hardly noticed the steps up to the entrance or the hand on her elbow, steering her gently into the place where her husband lay. Inside she had the impression of being closed in, the grey walls encircling her as she moved through the corridor. Then they were in a waiting room and several people introduced themselves to her in subdued tones.
Somebody spoke her name; they were trying to tell her something but she couldn’t hear the words. As if in a dream she allowed herself to be led out, her eyes fixed straight ahead to where they were taking her.
It was a small room with a large glass window obscured by pleated pink curtains and a potted palm in one corner. A small print of Monet’s garden at Giverny caught her eye, the long reeds obscuring the water below the bridge. They need cutting back, Liz thought, staring at the painting, reluctant to take her eyes off the green swirl of brushstrokes. She felt her arm being squeezed and her name spoken once more, as the family liaison officer gently eased her into a chair. On a table directly in front of her were two small television sets, side by side.
‘Just take your time. It’s the right-hand screen,’ the officer murmured. Liz turned anxiously to face this girl who was looking at her with such compassion, then swallowed hard as she turned towards the television.
The black and white image showed a bare room with a hospital trolley in the middle. Under its swathe of white lay the body of a man. Someone had lifted the sheet off the top end of the makeshift bed, revealing the man’s face. For a moment Liz felt pleased that the bedding was so clean and neat, the fold precise and square on the turned-back sheet.
It was Duncan. And she was looking down at him through this absurd television.
Liz smiled. It was all right. He was only asleep. She felt a sigh come from her chest as she looked at his familiar face, the eyelids closed, his mouth a straight line, the way it always was as he slept.
But there was something wrong. Duncan never slept on his back like that.
Liz frowned and glanced at the girl who was still holding her arm.
‘Mrs Forbes? Can you confirm that this is your husband?’
A tight feeling constricted Liz’s throat, making it impossible to speak. She nodded instead and then looked at the television again as someone stepped in and began to cover Duncan’s face.
Immediately Liz struggled out of the policewoman’s grasp and staggered towards the image of her husband, trying to call his name.
As she grabbed the edges of the television set, the figure beneath the sheets seemed to disappear, leaving an empty white space filling the screen.
Liz recoiled suddenly, whimpering.
Taking a step backwards into the arms of the girl behind her, Liz’s eyes were fixed to the screen. It was there again, the body of her husband. Of Duncan.
Then a single scream of ‘No …!’ was torn from her throat.
CHAPTER 11
Dr Rosie Fergusson twisted the ring under the two layers of gloves, feeling the diamond below the soft material. She should have taken it off but as usual she had forgotten. Since Christmas, her engagement ring had become a part of her and she only removed it for surgery. When she remembered. For a brief moment Rosie allowed herself to think of Solomon and how she would feel if it were his corpse lying on her slab, then immediately banished such thoughts. The poor woman who had been in earlier to identify her husband was inconsolable. Rosie
had caught a glimpse of her as they left by the rear of the mortuary. It was not a good idea to encounter relatives before you cut open their loved ones, she thought. The police liaison officers had done their usual excellent job with Elizabeth Forbes. Now it was up to Rosie to do her bit.
*
As she threw the outer gloves into the pedal bin, Rosie gave a sigh. ‘So far there’s nothing to show that Duncan Forbes has died from any other cause than drowning,’ she remarked to Dan, her fellow pathologist who had been the note-taker while she had performed the postmortem. Victims of drowning were given post-mortems as a matter of routine; those that might carry the suspicion of being other than accidental required two pathologists in attendance. The double-doctor system that Scottish law demanded had the added advantage of pathologists being able to bounce ideas off one another.
‘He was certainly alive when he entered the water,’ Dan replied. It was true. His lungs had breathed in water from the Clyde.
Rosie frowned. ‘There are no injuries to his hands which would suggest he’s not struggled against any rocks. Haemorrhaging in the inner ear is in keeping with no immediate cardiac arrest. No, this chap’s drowned all right.’