by Alex Gray
CHAPTER 25
‘We need to talk,’ Jennifer whispered into the mouthpiece as though there might be somebody in the room who could overhear her conversation. ‘Soon,’ she continued, then paused to listen to the voice at the other end. ‘Why here?’ Her tone was petulant. ‘But — oh, all right, then. Tonight?’
She listened some more then replaced the handset by her bed, slouching back against the plump, frilled pillowcases with a sigh. Truth to tell, she’d rather be on that flight to Cyprus and anticipating a week of sunshine and beachside cocktails, but it just wouldn’t do. There were some things she owed Michael Turner.
The woman sat up slowly, removed her green jacket and threw it onto the chair beside her bed. It was a novelty to have a day at home all to herself and Jennifer was suddenly at a loss as to quite how she would spend it. That DCI had only taken half an hour at the most and her phone call had only lasted a matter of minutes, so Jennifer had the prospect of filling the entire day any way she wished. She rolled lazily onto her side and reached for the remote control, pressing buttons as she fixed her attention on the TV screen. A bit of breakfast television would pass the time while she decided just what she most wanted to do. There was no point in contacting any of Michael’s friends until later this evening, probably just after six o’clock when they were most likely to be at home.
Jennifer Hammond smiled to herself. This time tomorrow she’d have it all sussed out. Then she could take off for Cyprus and stay there for as long as she wanted.
Malcolm Adams put down the telephone, his hand trembling. He’d had nothing to eat since yesterday and hunger was making him nauseous. But it wasn’t just hunger. The dull ache in his belly was a constant reminder of that insidious shadow he’d seen on the X-rays. Six months, the specialist had told him. Six months during which he would become weaker and weaker until the cancer eventually overtook his entire abdomen. It was quite inoperable, being so advanced. ‘Take a long holiday while you can still enjoy it,’ the oncologist had advised him. ‘Let the office go. They’ll understand.’
Malcolm had not relished the prospect of telling anybody, especially his colleagues. Things were fraught enough. If he could hold out a bit longer, have his affairs transferred as he’d planned, then at least Lesley and the kids would be all right. His wife had been so anxious, making him tasty little meals to tempt his appetite, urging him to go back and see their GP. But Malcolm had brushed off her attentions, saying that the ulcer wasn’t responding quickly enough to the medication Dr Downie had given him. Lesley had looked at him questioningly but had taken his word for it. She believed him so implicitly, Malcolm thought, her wifely innocence so at odds with his own sordid secrets.
He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands with a groan then sat up suddenly, the pain shooting through him as his stomach felt the sudden pressure. There was hardly any way he could be comfortable these days. He’d taken to going for gentle strolls along the banks of the river during his lunch hour. Watching the traffic crisscross the bridges or feeding his sandwiches to the numerous water fowl that populated the river gave Malcolm a strange sort of respite from the rest of his day. It was an interlude that he found especially soothing; sometimes ducks bobbed their way to the edge of the river bank below his gaze, caring only for what they could gobble up. To them he was a source of food, that was all, not a man under the torture of a life sentence. Their small acts of selfishness offered Malcolm another perspective of himself. They didn’t give a damn about his cancer, and their indifference seemed to rub off on him. There were days when he could have stayed looking down into the river all afternoon but of course he was always back at his desk, fearful of drawing unwanted attention to himself.
Sitting down and walking slowly eased the constant torment and the sedatives helped at night. Lesley had begun to bring him a hot water bottle now, sensing his increased discomfort. Did she guess? Or was she practising the sort of denial which those close to a cancer sufferer indulged in? He wasn’t being particularly brave by keeping this a secret, Malcolm admitted. It was more that he was terribly afraid of what consequences might follow if he were to reveal the truth of his illness.
He looked out of the window of his third-storey office, distracted by the man whistling outside. For a moment he watched as the window cleaner rubbed the long glass panes with a cloth then swiped them clean with his scraper. The man’s denims were frayed at the knee and his plaid bodywarmer had seen better days but he stood there on the trolley, whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Malcolm Adams knew a sudden pang of envy. This bloke probably took home a meagre pay packet each week and spent it on booze, fags and the occasional cheap holiday to Spain. He’d never have sampled the kind of fine wines that Malcolm had amassed over the years, or visited such exotic locations. His kids wouldn’t be at private schools. His wife wouldn’t be able to afford the latest in designer fashions. Yet, as he listened to the whistling, Malcolm knew he would give anything to exchange his own life for that of the man outside his window.
‘Malcolm? Are you busy right now?’ Catherine Devoy was in the doorway, her face tilted anxiously in his direction.
He shook his head and she came into the room, closed the door carefully then sat down, smoothing her skirt over neatly crossed legs.
‘Malcolm,’ Catherine looked intently into the eyes of the man behind the desk. ‘I think it’s time we had a talk, don’t you?’
‘I don’t believe her,’ Lorimer told his detective sergeant. ‘I’m certain she knows whose voice is on that tape.’
Alistair Wilson raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Lorimer’s intuitions were usually spot-on in his experience. It was as if the man were possessed of an invisible antenna that caught all sorts of nuances that were lost to other mere mortals. Maybe it was his background in the study of art, the cultivation of a kind of perception that senses more than is simply visible to the eye.
‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I’d go so far as to say she’s covering up for one of the staff at Forbes Macgregor.’
‘Any point in making tapes of them all?’ Wilson asked.
Lorimer made a face. ‘Our voice expert reckons the hysteria would have altered the woman’s voice considerably. You know what it’s like when we’re interviewing someone under stress and their tone of voice goes right up the scale? Well, our guy tells me the same sort of thing was happening here. The caller was genuinely frightened, probably in a state of shock, when she spoke into that telephone.’
‘Distorted her usual voice, then?’
‘To some extent. But not so that Miss Hammond couldn’t recognize it.’
‘Maybe she’s heard the same voice having hysterics before?’
‘Could be. But unless we put extra pressure on her she’s not going to tell us.’
Alistair Wilson shrugged. ‘What now, then?’
‘Now we keep digging around at Forbes Macgregor.’
Jennifer Hammond was humming along to the television’s jingle when the doorbell rang. Her visitor was early, but that was okay. She’d been ready for ages. The wine was cooling in the fridge and she’d put out some low calorie nibbles on a Chinese dish on the glass table. She flicked her red hair back from her face as she walked along the corridor, aware of a new spring to her step. Some serious retail therapy had lightened her mood after that policeman’s earlier visit and now she was going to compound it with her well-thought-out scheme.
‘Hi, come on in. Let me take your coat.’ She smiled at her visitor, noting the water droplets on the raincoat as she took it through to her bedroom. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she called. ‘Help yourself to some Chablis. It’s in the fridge and I’ve left glasses on the worktop.’
Jennifer glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe. Her face was flushed with excitement and anticipation. Nothing could go wrong, surely? She’d thought out all the angles. With a sidelong smirk at herself, the redhead flicked off the light switch and sauntered back into the sitting room. Her visitor had draw
n the cork and filled two long-stemmed glasses already, Jennifer noted with satisfaction.
‘Cheers,’ she said, raising a glass and swallowing a welcome mouthful. ‘Happy days,’ she added, sniggering inwardly at the irony of her words. If all went according to plan there would be plenty of happy days for Jennifer Hammond, but she was not so sure that the same would apply to the person who sat opposite watching her thoughtfully.
The nausea hit her when she tried to stand up. Okay, she’d managed to polish off the best part of two bottles of wine. Her visitor had been more abstemious, having to drive, but Jennifer was used to a few glasses. Shouldn’t be feeling like this. Maybe coming down with a bug, she thought as she tried to steady herself. She sat down again heavily, her hand brushing the edge of the coffee table.
What if …? The sudden thought made her grab her mobile. The names blurred as she scrolled down the list. Blinking hard, Jennifer saw his name and pressed the green button. For a moment the ringtone was all she heard then another wave of nausea came over her and the mobile dropped from her fingers.
The Jack Vettriano print on her wall seemed to be moving as if a wind had caught it from behind, its very shadows seeping out of the frame as Jennifer swayed on her way to the bathroom.
Light smashed against her eyeballs as she pulled the light cord and she just made it to the wash basin in time as her stomach contents heaved their way upwards. Staggering now, she turned on the cold tap then put out her hand to swish away the disgusting mess blocking the basin. But at that very moment a different sensation swept over her and she felt her legs give way.
There was no sudden intimation of mortality, simply a fading away of her senses as Jennifer Hammond closed her eyes on the world for the last time.
CHAPTER 26
Davie McLaren was furious. Why couldn’t the factor have sent someone round immediately? God knows they charged enough in monthly service fees. Meantime he’d had to wait over an hour while his bathroom carpet became more and more sodden underfoot and the ceiling threatened to give way. Knocking on the door of upstair’s flat had met with nil response. The silly cow had gone out and left her bath running, by the looks of things.
The footballer banged his fist against the telephone table, making the instrument jump with a sudden tinkle. Damn and blast! He’d wanted to soak in a bath and ease away all the sore places that hurt after today’s training session but couldn’t risk even stepping into the bathroom lest the whole ceiling came crashing down. At least he could use the loo in the ensuite and have a shower if he really felt like it. But Davie McLaren had wanted to have a bath and the young midfielder had become used to having what he wanted at the click of his fingers. He’d give that stuck-up redhead a real piece of his mind when she came back.
‘What’s wrong?’ Davie opened the door a little wider to admit the woman he recognized from the factor’s office. She was chalk-white and trembling.
‘Can I use your phone?’ she asked, not waiting for Davie’s reply but walking straight towards the telephone on the hall table. ‘My mobile’s on the blink,’ she added, quickly dialing three numbers.
Davie started to speak but shut up immediately as the woman shot him a look, waved her hand at him and spoke into the telephone.
‘Police, please, and an ambulance as well. Eighty Riverside Gardens. Yes.’ She paused and her eyes met Davie’s as she continued to talk to the emergency operator. ‘Linda Roberts. I’m here from Treeby-Willis on behalf of the downstairs tenant. Water was coming from the flat above. I … I found a woman’s body in the bathroom.’ There was another pause as Davie stood, mesmerized by what he was hearing. ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s dead.’
Lorimer watched as the photographer flashed shot after shot of the mess in Jennifer Hammond’s bathroom. The woman’s body was slumped between the bath and the wash basin, her red hair falling over her face. Someone had turned off the tap and made a start at clearing the vomit into evidence bags. The smell emanating from the tiny room was sweet and rotten. The stench of vomit was infectious; you couldn’t help but want to add your own stomach contents to those already splattered by a victim. The scene of crime lads were impervious to it all, going through the motions of collecting traces and investigating the woman’s last physical movements with nary a qualm.
Lorimer retreated into the sitting room. It was only this morning that he’d stood here contemplating the scenery from this window. Now the midnight view was all stars of brightness and blinking headlights as the traffic still sped over the black arc of the Kingston Bridge. He could see the reflections on the water in a pattern of pale crescent moons as the river continued to move below his gaze.
He turned back and looked intently at the room. It was much the same as it had been earlier; a stylish, comfortable room with its central table and that single wine glass that would be taken away for examination. He wandered into the small galley kitchen. Two empty wine bottles sat on the counter beside a bottle opener. There were scraps of dark green foil pushed to one side that matched the necks of the wine bottles. So she’d been on a binge, had she? Lorimer tried to imagine the red-haired woman drowning her sorrows about Michael Turner, but somehow the scene refused to equate with several designer carrier bags that he’d found shoved in a hall cupboard. The receipts were still inside, showing that Jennifer Hammond had enjoyed a shopping spree a few hours before her death. Binge-drinking herself to the stage where she lost control was not the impression he’d had of this young woman. She was much more sophisticated than that. Much more. Drugs, then? a little voice suggested.
Her bedroom was past the bathroom and Lorimer had to squeeze his way carefully past the white-suited officers. Like the sitting room, the walls were decorated in pale gold with a rich amber fleur-de-lis pattern bordering the plain coving. But there any resemblance to the other room ended. Jennifer Hammond’s king-sized bed was swathed in a rich, dark red satin. Tasselled and frilled pillows embroidered with red and gold oriental designs had been grouped at the head of the bed below a sweeping canopy. Lorimer looked up at the ceiling, almost expecting to see an oval mirror but there was none. Despite this, the room still had the air of a bordello. An ancient hookah stood in one corner of the room, several small brass bowls placed artfully around its base. Lorimer sniffed the air but could detect nothing. The old pipe was purely for decorative purposes, then. Like the silk shawl that was fastened to the wall opposite the window, pinned somehow to make its pattern of peacocks fan their tails in three perfect arcs. Its fringes whispered in the draught of air coming from an underfloor heating vent.
Lorimer continued to look at the contents of the room, trying to see past the lavish furnishings for the more mundane things that might give him a clue to what had happened that evening. The bedside cabinet, a queer, carved affair on spindly legs, had only one drawer. Lorimer opened it carefully with gloved hands. Inside there was the usual detritus of female existence; a packet of contraceptive pills, a black-handled hairbrush with red hairs entwined in its bristles, a calf-skin address book, a Filofax and two pens bearing the name of Forbes Macgregor. A half-empty jar of Clinique night cream and a small wooden pill box completed the drawer’s contents. Lorimer unscrewed the box but the white pills could have been anything. That was a job for the lab. On top of the table was a pseudo-antique telephone, enamelled with flowers in shades of pink and red and finished in gilt.
For a second, Lorimer could imagine the dead woman lying there in splendid opulence, the satin sheets drawn up around her pale skin, telephone in one hand, smiling coquettishly as she flirted with her latest admirer. He experienced a sudden feeling of loss that the woman’s vivaciousness had been snuffed out in such a sordid manner. Lorimer sighed. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t written that earlier report about his visit to the flat. Maybe Superintendent Mitchison’s paper trails had some uses after all. And a sudden death in the midst of a murder inquiry was reason enough for the DCI to impose his authority.
Maggie sank gratefully into the armchair. It had b
een a long day and being all alone this evening had made it longer. Ah, well. Some things never changed, she thought wistfully, wondering what it was that had kept her husband late tonight. The demons of doubt began to whisper in her ear. Was he seeing someone else? That blonde DI who had been an undercover officer was part of her husband’s team. Maggie recalled the girl from a party they’d been at. She’d been there with Mark Mitchison, as she remembered. A pretty girl, DI Josephine Grant, smart too. Maggie forced down the picture in her mind of her husband with another woman. An overactive imagination, that was what was wrong with her, she scolded herself. Think of something else.
Maybe she’d give Mum a quick ring; see what she’d been up to today. Her hand idled over the arm of the chair to where the telephone lay on the floor. She wriggled sideways then caught sight of the red flashing light. Damn! The buzzer had gone again on the answering machine. How many missed calls this time, she wondered? There was just one from Bill, telling her he’d be late. There was nothing unusual about that, Maggie told herself, so why was she unable to banish these treacherous thoughts about a certain blonde DI who might also be working overtime?
CHAPTER 27
On the other side of the Atlantic, Officer Biegel stared at the medical report and then looked again at the most recent fax from Glasgow. He frowned and read them both again. That didn’t make sense. He shook his head as if trying to shake off an irritating blowfly, then gave a sigh. It might be more trouble than it was worth, but his own curiosity as well as the knowledge that he ought to dig a bit deeper stopped him binning the fax. The NYPD officer swivelled around in his chair.
‘Hey, Curt! Take a look at this.’ Biegel waved the papers in the air. ‘Think we’ve got a problem.’ He waited until the other man loped across to his desk and read the two papers studiously.