by Alex Gray
‘Really?’ Lorimer could not stop himself remarking. But there was a steeliness in those grey eyes that made him believe her.
‘It would be very helpful, ma’am, if you could give me the names of any persons who might have had reason to harm Mr Pattison,’ he continued, deliberately trying to keep the conversation on a formal footing.
‘Hmm, where do I begin?’ She leaned back, her cheek resting against her hand as she considered his request.
There was a glimmer of sunshine as Lorimer was driven away from the Scottish parliament building and, as he looked up at Arthur’s Seat, the hill behind him, misty clouds above its rounded top parted to reveal patches of blue sky. Enough to mend a sailor’s trousers, his mum had been fond of saying. That thought brought him back to his next visit. Edward Pattison had been a husband and a father. His loss was going to be something quite different for his wife and kids. There would be none of Felicity Stewart’s straight talking; that was for sure.
What had he made of the woman? Lorimer wasn’t a particularly political animal, police politics having been enough to stomach in his career, but he did have a fondness for the history surrounding the ideals of Scottish independence. Ms Stewart was one hard woman, that was evident, but perhaps having a steely core was a primary requirement for trying to run the country whilst fending off an opposition party like Labour, who were traditionally at odds with the SNP. That she had been honest was admirable, but Lorimer felt she had lacked something. The milk of human kindness, he thought, remembering Lady Macbeth. Surely it wouldn’t have hurt the first minister to utter one kind word about Pattison? Still, she had given the detective some names, in complete confidence, of course. Lorimer frowned, wondering if the men whose names he had written into his BlackBerry had really been the dead man’s bitter enemies. Or was Felicity Stewart using him to undermine the credibility of these politicians for her own ends? He had a duty to investigate them now, of course, but why did he feel that he had just escaped from a sticky web of intrigue?
The house where the Pattisons lived was not too far away, probably a ten-minute journey at rush hour. Murrayfield was an upmarket area, not only because of its proximity to the famous rugby grounds, but also due to the large and solid properties marching in rows away from the main road. It was easy to spot the Pattison home. Across from the grey stone detached house a knot of reporters were stood, and they began to rush the police car as soon as it turned into the avenue.
The uniformed driver and his escort stood their ground, however, ushering them back to the opposite pavement, despite their shouts for information. Lorimer heard cameras clicking and he had no doubt that his profile would be gracing the Edinburgh Evening News later in the day. A tall young copper from Lothian and Borders standing outside the garden gate of the house sketched a salute as the detective superintendent passed him. Lorimer gave him a nod in reply. It was to be expected that a police guard would be put upon this place given Pattison’s public persona. He only hoped it would keep the worst of the press at bay for the family’s sake. It was a short walk to the front door, past well-tended lawns and a row of blue ceramic containers filled with rich dark soil. In a few weeks the first bulbs might help to cheer this entrance, but for now this garden was still in the grip of winter.
His office had made the call for him, letting Mrs Pattison know that Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police would arrive some time in the early afternoon. Now, as he stood in the porch, one hand ready to ring the doorbell, Lorimer wondered how that news had been received. Bad enough to have to deal with a sudden death, but murder and the intrusion of the police must surely compound the grief and confusion of any newly bereaved woman. Lorimer waited, watching for shadows behind the glass door with its etchings of a Greek-style vase and plaited laurel wreaths. He had brought bad news to people’s doors plenty of times in the past and was able to empathise with them, understand their shock and horror. It wasn’t the first time he had been involved in the murder of a man with such a high public profile but death had no consideration of class or status and Lorimer expected this widow’s reaction to be similar to those he had seen so often before.
A figure approached the glass door and it opened with a click and a rattle, the tell-tale sign that a security chain had been unfastened.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer?’ An older lady stood by the half-opened door, looking at him uncertainly. She had the voice of a well-educated woman, deep and clear, with that cultured accent he associated with Edinburgh gentlefolk.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, holding out his warrant card so that she might be able to verify that he was indeed a policeman.
‘I’m Mrs Cadell, Catherine’s mother,’ the woman told him. ‘Please come in.’ She closed the door firmly behind them and replaced the chain.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ she remarked, her voice betraying the first signs of nervousness, but she gave the ghost of a smile, as if it was important to keep one’s spirits up. ‘Catherine asked me to take you through to the drawing room. She’ll be right down.’
Lorimer followed Mrs Cadell through the reception hall and into a bright airy room that looked out onto the street. He was not surprised to see cafe curtains at each pane of the bay windows, keeping any prying eyes from seeing into the Pattison’s home. His own mum had always kept her nets, as she’d called them, up at the front windows and Lorimer could still recall summer days when they had billowed from their washing line before being given a quick iron and put back onto their wires. It was a pleasant room, its walls painted pale yellow to tone with the ochre tapestry cushions on the occasional chairs surrounding a large oak coffee table. As always, Lorimer’s eyes were drawn to the paintings, his history of art training making him notice anything that was in a decent frame; two were landscapes that he recognised as the work of the Scottish artist, Tom Shanks, but the third was a full-length portrait of a young woman in a black evening dress, her long dark hair wound around one side of her neck in the manner of an old Gainsborough. She seemed to look down at him as he gazed, her eyes following him as he stood to one side then the other, trying to catch the light properly. The pale face was tinged with just a hint of pink on the cheeks and the laughing mouth was outlined in scarlet. It might have owed something to the old masters but this was certainly a modern portrait and he was curious to identify the artist: a Robert Mulhern, perhaps? Just as Lorimer was approaching to see if he could make out a signature, the door opened and the subject of the painting walked in.
‘Mrs Pattison?’ Lorimer stepped towards Edward Pattison’s widow, one hand outstretched.
Catherine Pattison glanced up at her portrait and then back at the tall policeman from Glasgow. Her long hair was tied back in an elastic band but there was no mistaking that pale face with its high cheekbones and those dark eyes. Instead of the formal black evening clothes, the woman was dressed in tight-fitting blue jeans, a navy cashmere sweater and a pair of red leather loafers.
‘Ed had it painted after we were married,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why he bothered, really,’ she added in the same clipped tones as her mother.
‘It’s a lovely picture, Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said gently.
They were silent for a moment as Catherine Pattison chewed her lip and looked away from him.
‘I’m sorry to have to come today, so soon after you’ve received this terrible news,’ Lorimer said at last. Then, as she made no reply, he took her gently by the elbow and steered her towards one of the chairs. ‘Better to sit here while we talk,’ he added, hoping that she was going to be able to speak to him.
‘My husband,’ she began, turning to Lorimer. ‘He … ’ Her voice tailed off in a note of despair, then she thumped the arm of the chair, her face twisted into a mask of fury. ‘Oh God! What the hell was he doing in that wood? Can you tell me that, Superintendent? Why wasn’t my husband in his hotel room where he said he would be?’
Lorimer noticed the unshed tears in those dark brown eyes, but it was
her expression of hatred that gave him pause for thought. He had been expecting grief but instead it was pent-up anger that seemed to be spilling out.
‘We’re following every possible lead, Mrs Pattison, and I can assure you that the police will do everything in their power to discover why your husband was out in Renfrewshire. That,’ he added more firmly, ‘is one reason why I’m here. To see if you can shed any light on this for us.’
‘Me?’ Catherine Pattison’s mouth fell open for a moment in genuine astonishment. ‘How on earth would I know what he’d been doing or who he’d been with? I’m only his wife,’ she added with a bitterness that made Lorimer’s eyes widen.
‘You think that your husband was with another woman?’
‘Oh, probably. Ed was one of those men who simply can’t … sorry couldn’t keep his trousers on … ’ She tutted, as though annoyed with herself. ‘God, I’ve got to get used to referring to him in the past tense, haven’t I?
‘Was there anyone he knew in that area?’
‘In Erskine? Not that I know of,’ Catherine Pattison replied. ‘Though he had been out at that hospital for the ex-servicemen once or twice and he’d stayed over at Mar Hall on several occasions. Even took me there once,’ she added.
For the first time, as she smiled at the memory, Lorimer saw the young woman through the artist’s eyes. Young, lovely and with a suppressed passion that was at once appealing and erotic. What the hell had Edward Pattison been thinking when he had abandoned his wife for casual affairs, if that was what they really had been?
‘Did you consider these other women any real threat to your marriage?’
Catherine Pattison smiled again but this time her mouth was twisted in an expression of cynicism. ‘Ed would never have left me. He was always far too aware of his public face, you know: the happily married man with three gorgeous kids who adored him. And they did, you know,’ she added, suddenly serious. ‘It’s going to be very hard for them. Ed might have been a philandering bastard but he was a good father.’
Then, as though she had held them back for too many hours, Catherine Pattison let the first tears trickle down her cheeks.
For a few minutes Lorimer let her weep, even handing her one of his own well-laundered white handkerchiefs to blow her nose.
‘I said there were several reasons why I had to speak to you, Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘And I do have to ask you if you know of any reason why someone might have wanted your husband dead.’
‘Apart from me?’ She smiled through her tears, then bit her lip as she saw the policeman’s unflinching expression. ‘Shouldn’t have said that, even as a joke, should I? After all it’s usually the spouse that commits the crime, if all these TV shows are to be believed.’
‘Statistically speaking, they are correct,’ Lorimer told her. ‘And so, yes, I do need to know where you were yesterday evening.’
Catherine Pattison heaved a sigh. ‘Well, I was at home all of last night. Peter, Kim and Lucy were in bed and I read a book till after twelve o’clock. The police phoned just after breakfast. She paused. ‘And my mother came straight over, of course.’
‘But there was nobody else with you last night?’
‘No.’
‘And did you receive any telephone calls during the course of the evening?’
‘No,’ she frowned. ‘What are you asking me all this for?’
‘As you said yourself, you need to give an account of your whereabouts in order to be eliminated from our inquiries.’
She looked at him, suddenly surprised at the idea of being regarded as a possible suspect. ‘I wouldn’t have murdered him, Superintendent. Even though he might have deserved it. I know I have a temper but I couldn’t do a thing like that.’
‘Well, can you think of anyone else who might have been capable of killing your husband?’
Catherine Pattison looked at him intently. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I can.’
CHAPTER 16
‘Priorities, Lorimer, priorities,’ the chief constable said, nodding, hands behind his back as he paced the room. ‘Pattison was possibly in line to become the most important figure in Scotland. Whereas … ’ He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that said more than mere words allowed.
If he kept grinding his teeth together like this as he struggled to keep his temper he’d strain his jaw, Lorimer thought, trying to maintain as bland a countenance as he could. The latest killing of a prostitute was of very little significance compared to Edward Pattison’s death, wasn’t this what the chief constable was telling him? Okay, so the public would expect a high profile with this one, but to practically shelve Helen James’s cases was wrong. Lorimer’s face must have expressed something of his inner feelings as the chief constable turned to him, eyes boring into his own.
‘You don’t like it. Well, that’s not my concern right now. You’ll do what you’re told by myself, Chief Constable Turrell in Lothian and Borders and of course by Felicity Stewart.’
He smiled, scratching the side of his nose. ‘What did you make of her, by the way?’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows, wondering if he was genuinely being required to state his opinion or if the chief was trying to search out his political leanings.
‘Fairly sharp, sir,’ he replied, hoping that this answer would be non-committal enough for now. A hard, unforgiving sort of woman, he had thought to himself, though he’d never utter such words outside his own four walls.
‘Aye, she is,’ the chief nodded again. ‘And she’ll be expecting you to find Pattison’s killer as soon as possible. The longer all this goes on, the worse it will be for the current administration. So, prioritise all of the existing cases in the squad, Lorimer. You hear what I’m saying?’
It was, he thought grimly, like being given a taste of his own medicine. Was this how DI Sutherland had felt when he had given him no option but to obey his orders? Perhaps. Well, there was maybe a lesson in this for him. He was always going to be accountable to someone higher up the chain of command, Lorimer thought. And even the chief constable probably had to do whatever the first minister demanded. The case files he’d given Solly suddenly came to mind, images of the Geddes woman in death making him tighten his lips in a moment of pity. He had wanted to take that case and shake it by the scruff of its neck, not because he’d had doubts about Helen James’s capabilities as an SIO, but simply because it seemed to matter so much. And, he acknowledged to himself, he wanted to find the person who had murdered these women and bring them to justice. Well, the street girls’ murders might have to be delegated to someone else now, but he was determined to keep an eye on whatever developments happened in that investigation. He thought of Helen James for a moment; pity she’d been unable to have keyhole surgery. The recovery time from her operation would be at least six weeks. Well, perhaps he’d have the Pattison case done and dusted by then, though something told him that wasn’t likely.
Lorimer sat still for a moment, considering his options. Creating a special unit drawn from Mumby and Preston’s officers and the task force that he now ran here was one possibility. It would certainly make sense to utilise the men and women who already knew the first two cases inside out. But he guessed that given Pattison’s position as the country’s deputy first minister the inquiry was going to require quite a different approach. The chief constable’s demands were perfectly reasonable, after all. Pattison had been a very important man and one who may well have had enemies within political circles. A niggle of suspicion made him frown: was this all to do with Pattison? He had come across sickminded killers before who had carried out several murders simply to obfuscate the one that really mattered. And, if ballistics came up with a different sort of weapon, could this possibly be a copycat killing? Felicity Stewart had given him a few names, one of which was the same as that supplied by Catherine Pattison; a disaffected Labour party member who had been heard threatening Pattison on more than one occasion. The others were SNP colleagues who, she claimed, had resented the la
te deputy minister’s meteoric rise to power. Somehow though, Lorimer felt it unlikely that any of them would have stooped so low as to actually kill their rival. Still their alibis for the night of Pattison’s death would have to be checked out and Lorimer found himself hoping that each of these politicians had been far from the scene of the deputy first minister’s murder.
Lorimer let his gaze pass from one photograph to the next, willing something to ignite a spark in his brain to show him a connection between each victim, not that he lacked faith in the officers who had been down these roads before. Until now all they had were crazy things: they’d all owned luxury cars in the same dazzling showroom white, they’d been staying just for a few days (or overnight in Pattison’s case) in the city centre. And the first two men had been killed by the same gun, according to ballistics. So far, questions asked in Glasgow’s shadier corners had failed to turn up anything, but there was still plenty of time for that, especially with the lure of a substantial reward in the wake of Edward Pattison’s death, something that had already been promised by the Scottish government. None of the informants questioned in the first two cases could supply the name of any pro that had been hired for the jobs. In fact there had been a distinct sense of unease coming out of the Glasgow underworld. Word had it that whoever was carrying out the killings had no previous connection with anyone in the network either up here or south of the border. But now things had changed. With the death of this high-profile figure surely something would emerge?
Edward Pattison’s death had begun to intrigue him. Despite the other cases that demanded Lorimer’s attention he admitted to himself that he wanted to know more about this man and what he had been doing out in that remote woodland area. Forensic reports still had to come in and perhaps then he would be able to make more sense of this bizarre killing. He’d already spoken to several journalists as well as allowing a press notice to be circulated with the grave warning to let the police get on with their investigation without interference. There were times when the press could be positively helpful but Lorimer knew this case would be plastered over every paper in the country, with speculation running high; and some journalists could and would write things that were counter-productive in a case. Well, at least it helped to have the authority of government to rein them in for now, he thought grimly. Politics came in handy sometimes after all. Tomorrow there would be more meetings with government figures and Pattison’s friends and family but for tonight he might just allow himself the luxury of a few hours away from here.