The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer)

by Alex Gray

  ‘Never bin in this place afore, have you, dearie?’ she asked.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘My wife would like it, though,’ he added.

  ‘She young and good-lookin’ like you, then?’ Mrs Porter grinned.

  Lorimer smiled. ‘Maggie’s lovely,’ he said. ‘She’s a school teacher,’ he added. ‘All the kids love her.’

  Mrs Porter nodded, satisfied to have drawn out a snippet of information from the tall man at her side who had remained so quiet on the taxi journey to the hotel.

  There were waiters with an assortment of drinks as they passed into a high-ceilinged room, and young waitresses clad in dark green, offering glass-topped trays of canapés.

  ‘None of your sandwiches and sausage rolls here, then,’ Wilson whispered to his boss. ‘Must be costing her a bomb.’

  Lorimer nodded silently, looking around at the crowd of mourners and listening to the sound of voices rising as more and more people arrived. It was, he decided, more like a posh reception before a gala dinner than any wake he had ever attended.

  ‘She done ’im proud, she ’as, I’ll say that fer ’er,’ Mrs Porter said grudgingly, one hand balancing a glass of bubbly, the other holding an empty cocktail stick, the large handbag now hooked across her arm. ‘That’s what they’ll all remember, won’t they? Gave ’im a right good send-off, they’ll say.’ She beamed with satisfaction as she picked up a concoction of something red and yellow from the tray of a passing waitress. ‘Don’t know what I’m eating, but it ain’t half good!’

  The old lady stopped and looked behind her as if some sound had caught her attention, but in truth it was simply the noise level decreasing as people stopped talking and heads turned to watch Vivien Gilmartin enter the room.

  She was alone now, and both the funeral hat and the pinned-back hairstyle had been discarded, the flame-coloured hair catching the light as Vivien walked towards them.

  ‘Mrs Porter, how kind of you to come.’ She took the old lady’s hands in hers as she bent to kiss her on each cheek. ‘And I see you have already met my oldest and dearest friend,’ she added, smiling at Lorimer for a brief moment. ‘Don’t go away too soon,’ she whispered to him. ‘I must do my widow’s duties, but I want to talk to you.’ There was a flash of something in her green eyes as she spoke, then she was moving away from them, reaching out to shake hands, murmuring how kind to other people, leaving Lorimer to wonder just what it was that she wanted to tell him.

  By the time Vivien returned, most of the mourners had drifted away; even Mrs Porter, who had commandeered Wilson to find her a taxi.

  ‘Thank God that’s over!’ Vivien gave a harsh little laugh as she sat down next to Lorimer.

  ‘Were you dreading it?’ he asked, looking at the woman’s pale face. Unusually, there were twin spots of colour marking those high cheekbones. The artifice of a make-up palette? Or a few drinks too many? he wondered.

  ‘I am so glad you are still here, William,’ she whispered, laying a slim hand on top of his, letting it linger there. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  He looked down at her, seeing the plea in those green eyes.

  ‘Ask away, Foxy,’ he said, his tone deliberately light.

  She moved a little closer.

  ‘Will you come back with me tonight? Stay with me?’ she asked, her voice husky with emotion. ‘I can’t bear to be alone in that house…’ she added, her grip on his hand tightening as the fingers sought his own.

  For a moment Lorimer wanted to take her chin and tilt it upwards, kiss away the tears that threatened to fall, but any comfort he could offer would be like the sort he gave to little Abby Brightman, he realised, not the kind of solace that this passionate woman was seeking.

  ‘My train leaves tonight,’ he told her, gently easing his hand from hers. ‘Alistair and I are booked on the sleeper.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes were wide with surprise. ‘I thought we…’ She shook her head and looked down at her hands. ‘Never mind. It was just a thought,’ she added, smiling a brittle smile, then rising as a couple came towards them.

  ‘Darlings,’ she gushed. ‘So good of you to be here for me. Give me a ring, Ruby. Next week?’

  Then she was gone, no backward glance for the tall man who had risen to his feet. He watched as she left, linking her arm with that of another man, one more stranger to the Glasgow policeman, her slim figure disappearing out of sight.

  Lorimer was relieved to see that they had the compartment to themselves. Darkness had fallen as the train pulled out of the station, the two policemen settling themselves down for the long night ahead.

  ‘Right.’ Wilson rubbed his hands together. ‘Now I can fill you in on what’s been happening down here. May as well give you the gen before I have to write the report.’

  Lorimer nodded. He had been quiet on the taxi ride to the station, the memory of Vivien Gilmartin’s proposition still warm in his ears. Had she really said that? Only hours after laying her husband to rest? Who was this woman, really? And what resemblance did she bear to the girl he’d once known and loved?

  ‘It’s been an interesting one,’ Wilson went on. ‘Saw a bit behind the scenes at a few of those theatres. Some of them are quite run-down and poky. Not like the auditoriums themselves, you know? All that fancy stuff, gold-painted and everything,’ he continued. ‘Reminded me of that saying: all fur coat and nae knickers.’ He laughed.

  ‘The recession has hit the arts especially badly.’ Lorimer reminded him.

  ‘Aye, they all told me that,’ Wilson agreed. ‘And that’s why they were especially grateful for Gilmartin’s money being poured into several of their productions.’ He looked sideways at Lorimer, who merely nodded. ‘Know what, though? They all said the same thing. Charles Gilmartin was dead keen on this African touring thing and none of them can understand why Mrs Gilmartin’s pulled the plug on it.’

  Lorimer shrugged. ‘Maybe she felt it couldn’t go on without him.’

  ‘No, that’s the odd thing,’ Wilson said. ‘The whole enterprise was ready to go. All the arrangements were in place, the London folk here like Goodfellow had it under control. At this stage Gilmartin was little more than a figurehead. The money, as one of them put it.’

  ‘So why was he up in Scotland?’

  Wilson’s eyes narrowed. ‘That was something Goodfellow wanted to know as well. Okay, Gilmartin was in talks with some of the Scottish theatres about the tour dates, and there was something about putting on a battle re-enactment in different parts of the country, but Goodfellow said all that sort of stuff could have been done by email or telephone.’

  ‘What else did he tell you?’

  Wilson took a deep breath as he looked his senior officer straight in the eye. ‘Goodfellow reckons that the only reason they both went to Glasgow was because the wife wanted him to go with her. That school reunion thing you were at.’ He continued to look at Lorimer as he went on. ‘Seems that Gilmartin took a bit of persuading from his good lady an’ all,’ he said quietly. ‘Any idea why he wasn’t invited to the reunion?’

  ‘It was only for former pupils, not partners,’ Lorimer replied, remembering how Maggie had asked the same question.

  ‘What about the possibility that Gilmartin invited someone back to their flat?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems unlikely that it was anyone he knew well, if he did,’ Wilson said. ‘According to his theatre friends down here, Gilmartin wasn’t one to cross the border very often. And there were no close friends in Scotland that anyone had ever heard of. Mrs Gilmartin said just the same,’ he added.

  ‘What about his popularity? Rich folk aren’t always best liked. Any jealousy? A reason of any sort for the man to be poisoned in his bed like that?’ Lorimer’s tone was terse, showing the first signs of the exasperation he felt.

  Wilson shook his head. ‘Mr Nice Guy,’ he replied. ‘Mind you, people don’t like speaking ill of the dead. Especially superstitious types like those theatre folk.’

  ‘But you didn’t unc
over any reason why someone would want him dead?’

  Wilson shook his head again. ‘It’s a mystery, and that’s saying something.’

  There was a silence between them as the train gathered speed, lights from the city receding now as the countryside approached, plunging them into inky darkness.

  Mr Nice Guy, Lorimer thought. The old cleaner had certainly been effusive in her affection for her late employer. But not for Vivien, a little voice reminded him.

  Gilmartin’s widow had been so eager to seek comfort from an old boyfriend. Was she in the habit of running into the arms of other men? Was her loyalty to her late husband something to be considered? The questions circled Lorimer’s mind, probing into places that made him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

  And for the first time, a chill settled into the detective’s bones as he considered the woman who, it seemed, would benefit most from her husband’s demise.

  Three a.m. The death hour, some called it, Maggie thought, glancing at the red numbers on the digital clock. She felt deathly cold right enough, despite the sweat making her nightdress cling to her, the duvet thrown back as she’d tried restlessly to escape from whatever had been hunting her down. The nonsensical dream that had gripped her was fading but the fear it had engendered lingered on. She remembered that cry in the darkness again. The cry for help. But there was nobody here to comfort her in the darkness; Maggie Lorimer’s husband was sleeping somewhere between London and Glasgow, a train bearing him back to where he belonged.

  Vivien Gilmartin wanted to keep him down there in London. She was certain of that, although no words had been spoken in Maggie’s presence. But she had noticed signs of the other woman’s predatory nature: the too-friendly glances directed towards her husband, the way she touched his arm whenever he did something kind or reassuring, the whispers meant only for him to hear. It had maddened Maggie, but what had upset her more was Bill’s apparent inability to see what Vivien Gilmartin was doing, luring him into her web like some thin, seductive spider. What had happened at the funeral? Had she managed to corner him somehow?

  Maggie felt the blood pulse through her ears as she shook her head.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she having such terrible thoughts, such jealous notions? It was only her imagination working overtime, wasn’t it?

  She pulled up the covers, the cold air making her shiver. She would see her husband tonight, after work. Then everything would be back to normal.

  Outside, the first signs of dawn had already arrived, with the birds singing in the garden, the clear skies presaging a fine morning, another working day ahead. Maggie had taken to sitting out of doors with her second-year classes, trying to instil something of the beauties of nature poetry into their heads. The school gardens were a poor substitute for the real countryside but they were better than nothing; at least there was grass, trees, a shrubbery and small beds of flowers, all lovingly tended by the janitor and his staff. Once she had taken them to the top of the science block, whispering that they must remain quiet, then allowing them to spend a few minutes staring out over the city skyline to the hills of the west.

  Maggie’s mind soared over the rooftops, longing for the term to end. She ached to be back in Mull, where they would rest and recover from all the stresses of their busy lives. She closed her eyes, a vision of Leiter Cottage and the Sound of Mull appearing, dark forests beyond the curve of the bay, the faraway hills of Morvern… With a sigh, she rolled on to her side, all previous dreams banished, and in moments she was asleep once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The girl had stopped crying at last.

  Shereen sighed deeply, her back against the wall outside Asa’s room. Since the night of her attempted escape, Okonjo, one of the Nigerian men, had been living in the flat, a suspicious look in his eye each time they had met in the kitchen or here in the hallway. Shereen had tried at first to avoid him, switching on her favourite soaps and quiz shows, but he had soon pulled the remote control out of her unresisting hand and changed the television channel to suit his own tastes: football, of course, and Formula One, the sound of cars racing around various circuits reminding the fat woman of a swarm of wasps zooming past. So Shereen had resorted to lingering beside Asa’s locked door whenever she could, hoping to reassure the girl with a look or a smile. The man took little real interest in their prisoner; so long as Shereen laid food on the table the Nigerian seemed happy enough.

  The big man had called once at the flat since that terrible night and Shereen had stood trembling in the kitchen, listening to Asa’s weeping as the white man had yelled obscenities at her. Afterwards he had tossed a rolled-up bundle of notes on to the kitchen table, Shereen’s wages for the previous month. She had tried not to snatch it up too eagerly, feigning a nonchalance that she did not feel.

  It was one more step towards paying off the loan shark, one more step towards her own freedom, the woman told herself.

  Asa lay on her side, teeth biting into her lower lip as she stared into the darkness. What had she done to deserve being here in this room with its lingering smells of human male sweat? The heavy plaster cast on her arm had not appeared to put off any of the customers seeking her young, pliant body. On the contrary, some of the men appeared to find something satisfying about making her cry out in pain as they rolled about on the bed, one even deliberately pulling at her arm so that the scream had brought Shereen running into the room.

  The man had shouted at the dark-skinned woman, snarling monosyllables that Asa had often heard repeated over and over as a client brought himself to a shuddering climax.

  She could not bring herself to look at Shereen now. Trust no one, a little voice whispered in Asa’s ear at night. It was a voice that had once been her own, words spoken in the language she could hear only in her head. Except for that time in the hospital, before she had been brought back here. The memory of her surprise came back to Asa now as she lay thinking of the Nigerian man and how he had hustled her back into the car, speaking words she could understand; telling her in no uncertain terms what would happen if she tried to run away again.

  And Asa remembered, too, the look in that nurse’s eyes as she had lifted her skirt, the woman’s disgust turning to astonishment as she had spotted the strange tattoo on her inner thigh.

  Would it have meant anything to her? Or was it simply a strange happening that would be forgotten, the next patient putting that small incident out of the nurse’s mind?

  ‘Got it!’ Kirsty Wilson put down the telephone, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

  She and the CID officer had trawled each and every one of the tattoo studios around the city, not always able to speak to the proprietor, but always leaving word about what they were looking for. Now, it seemed, she had struck gold. Gathering up the jacket of her uniform from the back of her chair, she buttoned it up carefully, making sure that all her gear was properly in place. Then, grabbing her hat and jamming it on to her head, she walked purposefully across the big room to where DC Patrick Lennox sat hunched over his own laptop.

  ‘Think I’ve found it,’ she grinned. ‘Place down by the river. Skin Art, it’s called.’

  ‘What did they tell you?’ DC Lennox had swung into step with Kirsty and now they were heading downstairs and out into the foyer of the police station, past the curling posters and the row of plastic seating where a couple of young neds sat, legs stuck out, hands tucked into the pockets of their fleece jerkins. Kirsty ignored them, past experience telling her never to make eye contact with anyone waiting there; rude remarks had been thrown the way of the rookie cop before, making her blush.

  ‘They specialise in Celtic stuff. Pictish too. And they remember a Nigerian girl having that triple spiral done,’ Kirsty told him, unable to keep the sound of triumph from her voice.

  ‘Well done you,’ Lennox conceded. ‘Let’s see what they can tell us then, eh?’

  It was a fine morning as the pair drove along the banks of the river in the direction of Glasgow Green,
colourful 2014 banners flying on every side. Lennox parked the pool car and Kirsty emerged into sunlight, a tiny breeze catching dark wisps of hair already escaping from the chequered hat. Across from where they stood, the water sparkled, a bluish tint gilding the brown waters, the fast-flowing currents that could pull anything down and down into the depths.

  Skin Art sounded grander than it was: a small shop with paintwork that had once been white but was now peeling and shabby, the sign ever so slightly askew as if a vagabond wind had knocked it off kilter and nobody had bothered to fix it again.

  The door opened with the ping of a bell into a tiny anteroom, barely big enough to be called a reception area. Lennox strode ahead, knocking firmly on the frosted-glass door set into the middle of a partition wall. The entire panel appeared to shake as his fist drummed against it.

  ‘Whaddyawant?’ A gum-chewing woman stood at the crack of the door. ‘Oh, it’s youse. Harry!’ she yelled, opening the door wider. ‘It’s the polis!’

  Kirsty looked at the skinny woman in the doorway. Her mane of over-bleached hair was tied back, emphasising sunken cheeks and a sharp jaw, the look of a typical junkie, Kirsty thought, her eyes travelling down the woman’s bare arms, noting old scars that were only partly hidden by the swirling tattoos.

  ‘Oh aye?’ A tall, thin man appeared and the woman seemed to melt into the background, such was the shock of Harry Temperland’s appearance. Even as Lennox was taking the man’s outstretched hand, Kirsty could not help but be fascinated by the tattooist’s long white hair and piercing blue eyes, the blue circles curving over his cheek making him seem like a druid from ancient times. He wore a loose-fitting tunic over an embroidered shirt tied at the neck, and grey linen trousers, his bare feet thrust into a pair of well-worn Birkenstocks. Kirsty blinked. He seemed like a complete throwback to the sixties; a hippy whose style had weathered several decades of sartorial change. Could he be old enough to have lived through that era? she wondered, trying to calculate the man’s age as they were ushered through the tattoo studio to a back room that doubled as office and print room. His skin was fresh and unwrinkled under the tattoos and he walked with the grace of a dancer; yet the hand that was offered to her at last was indeed that of a much older man, liver-spotted and gnarled.