The Riverman lab-4

by Alex Gray

  It took ages for the plane to clear. Graham West responded to the beautiful woman’s smile with a cursory nod. The girls at Singapore Airlines had catered for his every whim, but for once he had barely noticed their feminine charms. His mind had been on other things.

  He looked warily at the officials in fluorescent jackets at the mouth of the corridor, then averted his eyes. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself. Keep your head down, he told himself. He’d bought a cheap baseball cap at Heathrow Airport and now he pulled the peak forward so that the lower half of his face was obscured. Just look like any other weary traveller.

  Now the queue of people was moving forward towards Immigration Control. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. A large stain of sweat would easily be seen, but so what? They’d been travelling for a day and a half: loads of other passengers would be just the same. That was the secret: to be just like everyone else. The queue inched forward and Graham could hear the mumble of voices answering questions. Suddenly he grinned as the memory of an old joke came to him:

  ‘Any convictions?’ The Australian immigration officer asks.

  ‘Didn’t know they were compulsory,’ replies the new arrival.

  Well, he certainly had no previous convictions and neither had Ray Easton. But as he came closer to the barrier that separated him from the area beyond, he felt a sense of unease.

  ‘Passport,’ the man said.

  Graham West handed it over, sweat now trickling between his shoulder blades.

  The man looked at him for a shrewd moment then said, ‘Just remove your hat, please.’

  West took off the baseball cap, staring as the officer compared him to the face in his photograph.

  He swallowed hard then touched his stubbled chin. ‘Haven’t had time to shave yet,’ he commented, trying to raise a feeble smile.

  The man handed him back the passport and flicked a hand in the direction of the baggage carousels. ‘Next!’ he called out, the man before him already forgotten.

  West walked forward, every step taking him closer to freedom. He’d done it! He’d actually done it! Breathing a huge sigh of relief he replaced the baseball cap on his head and looked for any sign that proclaimed ‘exit’.

  People around him were pushing trolleys piled high with baggage and heading for the double doors that would take them out into the arrivals area. He slipped easily between two middle-aged men. Camouflage, he warned himself.

  Then they were out, into bright sunlight pouring through the windows and a noise of voices talking, shouting and whooping as passengers were reunited with long-lost friends and relations. He could see the doors to the street and imagined a waiting line of taxis.

  ‘Mr Easton?’ a voice at his shoulder asked.

  Graham whirled around. Two uniformed policemen stood there, unsmiling.

  ‘Would you mind coming with us, sir?’

  ‘They’ve got him!’ Detective Constable Niall Cameron burst into Lorimer’s room just as the DCI hung up his jacket. ‘We heard from Sydney just now and they’ve taken him in for questioning. They say it’s just a matter of time before he’s sent back to Glasgow!’

  ‘Good,’ Lorimer replied, trying his best to look pleased. It had been a long case with so many twists and turns that the team would view this with huge relief. So how would they feel when he asked them to probe a little deeper into certain areas?

  ‘Ask everyone to assemble in the muster room,’ he told Cameron. ‘Five minutes.’

  When the door closed, Lorimer drummed his fingers on the desk. What the hell was he meant to say to them? That Dr Solomon Brightman felt West’s profile was all wrong for that of a serial killer? That he himself had some weird sort of intuition that things were not as straightforward as they seemed?

  When the telephone rang Lorimer ignored it for several moments, then picked it up.

  ‘DCI Lorimer,’ he snapped, then his face changed as the caller on the line identified herself.

  ‘There’s been a new development,’ Lorimer told the assembled officers. ‘Graham West has been picked up by the police in Sydney and it looks very much as if we’ll have him back here within two days.’

  The cheer that went up was silenced by his raised hand.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Lorimer went on, his voice sombre. ‘I’ve just had a call from Mrs Lesley Adams.’

  All eyes turned in his direction.

  ‘She’s bringing someone else in to see us shortly.’ Lorimer looked round the room at the expectant faces. ‘Michael Turner has just arrived back in Scotland.’

  Solomon Brightman alighted from the taxi outside police headquarters. It was less than half an hour since Lorimer’s call. He had handed his lecture notes to his eager Scandinavian assistant, thrown on his coat and scarf and made for University Avenue. A taxi had arrived in minutes.

  Solly nodded as the receptionist handed him his security badge then looked around him. There was no sign of any excitement here at any rate. That would change as soon as he went upstairs to CID, he chuckled to himself. Voices behind him made him turn around. A dark-haired woman and a younger man were approaching the reception desk.

  ‘I’m Mrs Adams,’ he heard the woman say, her voice breathy with nerves. ‘And this is Mr Turner,’ she added, permitting herself a smile in the man’s direction.

  Solly stood quietly, studying the pair. Lesley Adams was a small woman, petite, like Rosie, but without his fiancée’s warm shapeliness. This woman was all angles, her high cheekbones and slim dark-suited figure making her appear brittle. The expression on her face was haunted and Solly could see by the dark circles below her eyes that she hadn’t slept. Michael Turner, on the other hand, was gaunt but relaxed. He might have been an athlete fresh from a training session: Solly suspected that his wiry frame belied a hidden strength. He wore a pair of ill-fitting chinos and a checked shirt that looked like thick American cotton. A glance at his shoes told Solly the rest. Birkenstocks, the US students’ favourite footwear. Wherever Michael Turner had been for the past few weeks, his luggage hadn’t travelled with him.

  *

  ‘Havenae hud any breakfast?’ the voice of the woman behind the counter accused him. ‘Cannae huv that, son,’ she scolded, dishing up eggs, bacon and black pudding with gusto.

  Sadie looked at the row of people standing in the canteen. Lorimer had brought them in with a brief explanation that his companions would have tea but could this young man be given one of her breakfast specials? The wee woman looked as if she could do with a good feed an’ all, but she just asked for some tea. Lorimer had taken a plateful of Danish pastries onto his tray, she noticed. Dr Brightman would have one too, she supposed, but yon man never seemed to notice what he was eating. Always away in a dream, they psychologists, Sadie told herself. Nae in the real world. Well, the laddie looked like he was happy with a ‘Sadie special’ at any rate, she thought, folding her arms in satisfaction as they trooped towards a table in the corner.

  ‘That better?’ Lorimer grinned as Michael Turner wiped the last of his egg yolk with a piece of bread.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he sighed. ‘Thanks for that. I thought I’d be taken straight into some interview room and grilled for hours.’

  ‘Is that what they did in New York?’ Solly asked.

  Michael turned his attention to the man with the thick dark beard. ‘Not really. They were surprisingly quick about things. Asked me all about what had happened, of course, but they seemed to know the man who had kidnapped me.’ He made a face. ‘Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Kidnapped. Like something out of a children’s story.’ He paused to swallow some tea. ‘I think it won’t be long before they catch up with him either.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a few hints they were dropping. Anyway my passport and other things were returned to me after they’d spent half a day finding out I was who I said I was.’ A sudden yawn caught him unawares and he blinked and smiled ruefully.

  ‘So,’ Lorimer began slowly, ‘the US police sent you back home? Just like that?’r />
  Turner nodded. ‘I was told that a report would be sent to Strathclyde Police in time but that I was to contact you as soon as I came off the plane.’

  ‘But you called Mrs Adams first,’ Solly reminded him gently.

  ‘Yes,’ Turner frowned. ‘Actually I called to speak to Malcolm, but …’ he trailed off as Lesley Adams bit her lip.

  ‘Yes. That was good of you to bring Mr Turner in to see us so promptly,’ Lorimer told her, ‘but I think we can let you go back home now.’

  Lesley Adams opened her mouth to speak but Lorimer shook his head. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as there are any developments about finding your husband,’ he told her. ‘Being here is no help either to you or to us. What if he should contact you at home?’ he added. The woman sniffed and swallowed, holding back tears that would undoubtedly spill the moment she was on her own. ‘You must remember what we agreed, Mrs Adams. Not a word to anybody that Michael Turner is here. And alive,’ Lorimer warned her.

  The debriefing was almost over and Michael Turner could soon be taken away to catch up with some sleep. That whole episode in the man’s life would be bizarre were it not for the events that had taken place here in Glasgow.

  Now they had been able to fill in some of the blanks. Turner hadn’t known about Duncan’s death; he’d been on a plane out of the country before the news had reached his other colleagues. Jenny’s death had affected him most, he admitted. She’d been with him at the going-away party, but hadn’t spent all night with him. They’d had a few hours in bed together before she’d returned to her own flat and he prepared for his journey to New York. The first he’d known about the murders was when he’d spoken to Malcolm Adams, shortly before his escape. He’d been shocked, of course he had, but getting out of that place was the most important thing then. It was only later, when that farmer had taken him in that he’d been able to make some sense of it all.

  JJ had lived there with his family years before, the farmer had told him. A bad lot, the Jacksons, and young Jimmy had been the worst of them all. Old man Jackson had been shot one Saturday night. Sheriff was sent for but Jimmy, or JJ, as he called himself, just vanished clean away. Hadn’t seen him since. Family had left one by one, the old lady dead and gone. Old house had been left just as it was until the day that vehicle had rolled off the highway. All this the farmer had told Turner and retold it to the local police who had driven Michael back from Alabama to New York. Nobody had said so in as many words, but Turner had enough hints to guess that JJ was already on the NYPD’s most-wanted list.

  Now Lorimer probed a little more deeply. Why had Turner been seconded to the New York branch of their accountancy firm? Why not someone else? It had proved an uncomfortable few minutes as Turner reluctantly admitted his surprise at being chosen for the New York posting when he had anticipated promotion within the Glasgow firm. And the business with JJ? He’d assumed the man was a major thief, trying to access Forbes Macgregor’s bank accounts. Had a ransom been put up for him? Lorimer shook his head and watched as the young accountant’s face became puzzled. Then why had he been captured? And what had been going on with the transfer of money from Graham West’s account?

  ‘Maybe you can answer that for me,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Cast your mind back to the time before you left. Was there anything untoward going on in Forbes Macgregor? Anything that might have been behind Duncan Forbes’ murder?’

  Michael Turner looked lost and weary. So much had happened to him and jet lag was obviously not too far away.

  ‘Think!’ Lorimer urged him. ‘Was there anything you knew about? Anything that wasn’t common knowledge?’

  A sudden light came into the man’s eyes at that and he raised his head.

  ‘Duncan said that,’ he told Lorimer. ‘Those were his very words. “Don’t let this become common knowledge, will you, Michael?”’ Turner gazed beseechingly at the DCI. ‘I didn’t tell a single soul, truly I didn’t!’

  ‘What was it that he asked you to keep so secret, Michael?’ Lorimer asked, his blue eyes fixing on the man.

  Michael Turner shrugged, ‘Nothing really. Just a routine sort of thing. Thought I should let Duncan know that there was an aberration in one of our client’s audits. Funds had been transferred to deposit accounts then moved on immediately.’

  Solly frowned. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s a typical hallmark of money laundering,’ Lorimer told him.

  Turner seemed to wake up at that moment. ‘That’s right. We have a duty to report it. I decided to tell Duncan and that was the last I heard of it.’ He looked at Lorimer intently. ‘I never thought any more of it. Duncan said he’d take care of things, besides …’ he trailed off, an expression of horror crossing his face. ‘Oh, my God! That’s what happened!’

  ‘What, Michael? For goodness sake, what happened?’

  ‘It was Jacobs Betting Shops,’ he faltered. ‘They were part of an international consortium; if they were laundering huge sums of money and Duncan found out about it, no wonder someone wanted him dead.’

  ‘But wouldn’t Duncan Forbes have told his other partners what was going on?’ Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Lorimer rose from his seat. The answer to that question was the key to this whole case. Elizabeth Forbes had told him something had been on her husband’s mind. Now he knew exactly what that something was. His thoughts racing, Lorimer left Turner in the care of police liaison and summoned up the troops.

  CHAPTER 49

  ‘Try the offices first. Devoy and Barr should be there. Bring them both in.’ Lorimer was grim-faced as he issued orders to the team. There was still no trace of Malcolm Adams.

  ‘Cameron, you and DS Wilson get officers down to each and every one of Jacobs’ betting shops. I want every bit of computer hardware seized now! Tell Iain MacKenzie he’s to issue a warrant!’

  Niall Cameron had looked astonished. Nobody, but nobody, told a Fiscal what he was to do.

  One by one his officers left for their different assignments until only the dark figure of Solomon Brightman remained, standing thoughtfully in a corner of the room.

  ‘Well?’ Lorimer glowered at the psychologist. ‘What now?’

  Solomon pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against. ‘Now we wait.’

  ‘Wait? What do we wait for?’

  ‘To see what they say. Barr and Devoy. One of them isn’t going to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ He grinned suddenly, pulling an imaginary forelock. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall when we tell them about Michael Turner.’

  ‘Oh, I think we can do better than that,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Catherine Devoy was looking out of the window at the street below.

  ‘What is it?’ Alec was at her side in two strides. There below them were three police cars blocking the road, officers already climbing the stairs to the office.

  Catherine looked up at the man beside her, willing him to take control as he always did, but all she saw was a mask of impotent fury drawn across his features.

  ‘Alec?’ she faltered, grasping onto his sleeve. ‘Alec, what-?’ but her words were lost in the snarl that issued from his mouth as he shook her off.

  ‘Stay here!’ he commanded. ‘Say nothing. D’you hear me? Not a word!’ Then he turned from the window and disappeared down the corridor.

  Catherine ran out of her room then stopped as her PA looked up in astonishment. This wouldn’t do. She couldn’t chase him all over the office. It wouldn’t do at all.

  She retreated and closed the door. It came to her then that Alec wasn’t coming back. She was on her own. Catherine drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Hadn’t she always known it would end like this? Any remaining fantasies she might have had about a new life with Alec dissolved at that moment. She would remain here and await the police who were no doubt swarming over the building already. What she had to do was like an exercise in damage limitation, she though
t wildly. It was imperative that she took control of herself and maintained what vestiges of dignity she could muster. But what about Alec? What was he doing?

  Alec Barr leapt down the fire escape to the cobbled area below. His breath came in sharp, short bursts. If only he could make it to the car park then he’d elude them.

  His feet slipped and slithered on the metal rungs as he turned the final corner and jumped to the ground. Heedless of what was going on in the offices above him, Barr ran along the lane to the underground car park they shared with the adjoining offices. For once he was grateful that they did not have a basement car park of their own. A quick flick of the remote and the huge metal doors began to open. Slowly, slowly they rose, Barr cursing them under his breath, then at last he shot through and headed for his silver Jaguar.

  The noise of the engine roared in the hollow echoing space as he rounded the bend that would take him out of the building and into the street. He prayed that no police car would be blocking the exit. A quick glance told him that the way was clear and he stepped hard on the accelerator, narrowly avoiding the kerb as he took the corner into the next street.

  His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he negotiated another bend and took the road leading towards the other side of the river. The afternoon traffic slowed him down and he dropped into the inside lane. He’d have to hide the car somewhere and proceed on foot. They’d be looking for him: they’d know his registration. All these thoughts whirled around his brain as Barr left the main thoroughfare.