Five Ways to Kill a Man

by Alex Gray

  ‘Chancer’ll be delighted to see you.’ She grinned. ‘Just wait till I tell him!’

  ‘Can you do it next week?’ Lorimer asked, listening to his young friend’s voice on the telephone. ‘Only it looks like Alice is coming home to us this weekend and we’d want her to have time to settle in.’ He smiled at the reply. ‘Aye I bet they’re noisy. And the amount of work needing done here will probably drive the neighbours mad. Best get it over and done with during the week when most of them are out at work. Okay. Thanks. See you soon.’

  Maggie looked up from her pile of marking, a question in her eyes.

  ‘Flynn,’ Lorimer supplied. ‘He’s going to tackle the garden next week. Clear the old winter stuff and give the grass its first cut. Says he’s got a huge power mower that makes a racket.’

  ‘Good.’ Maggie nodded. ‘It’ll be company for Mum as well. She’s always had a soft spot for Flynn.’ She chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘How’s he going to bring the gardening machinery all the way over here?’

  ‘A pal’s going to drop him off and pick him up later on.’

  Maggie nodded again, turning her attention to a Prelim paper that was already covered in red pen marks. ‘That’ll please Mrs Ellis. No big white vans cluttering up the street.’

  Lorimer grinned. Their neighbour was a fussy woman who found fault rather too easily with her neighbours. Still, if it hadn’t been for her watchful disposition, Flynn might have suffered badly at the hands of those men who had abducted him from Lorimer’s home. His smile slipped a little at the memory. It could all have gone so horribly wrong. The harrowing experiences he’d endured had made Joseph Alexander Flynn a stronger person. And, despite them all, one thing he had never lost was his infectious sense of humour. Yes, he thought, his mother-in-law would enjoy the banter with him next Monday.

  There were still three days until Saturday and Maggie Lorimer was now counting them in hours. There was so much still to be done, so many little things to remember. Her kitchen calendar was disfigured with scribbles and post-it notes and she had resorted to adding items on to the magnetic shopping list that her friend, Sandie, had given her for Christmas. Once Mum was home and ensconced in their (now much tidier) dining room, it would be a lot easier. Wouldn’t it? The downstairs loo was sparkling clean and decked with newly laundered fluffy towels as well as Alice’s favourite Roget et Gallet rose perfumed soap, another of Maggie’s Christmas gifts from one of her Sixth Year pupils. Their own sitting room was upstairs across the landing from the bedrooms. Originally used as a bedroom-cum-playroom by the previous owners, the Lorimers had opted to make this their main public room. The long dining room downstairs incorporated what was really Maggie’s study, handy for a stroll through to the kitchen for the endless cups of coffee she required to sustain her through the hours of marking.

  They would have to try to spend some time with Mum in the evenings, though it would be nice to have their own space upstairs at the end of a day. The TV would have to be kept low, so as not to disturb her. And maybe she could find a wee hand bell to let her Mum ring should she need either of them in a hurry. But it should all work out fine, Maggie’s sensible self told her firmly. So why was she experiencing these little pangs of guilt? Or were they feelings of inadequacy? After all, nothing prepared you for the daunting task of caring for your own parent, did it?

  ‘How’s your mother-in-law, Sir?’

  Lorimer tried to keep his expression neutral but knew from DI Martin’s face that he had singularly failed to hide his surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, your friend, Dr Fergusson, told me about her,’ Rhoda replied, her head to one side as if she were considering her superior’s situation.

  ‘She’s much better, actually,’ Lorimer told her. ‘Coming home at the weekend.’

  ‘To stay with you?’

  ‘Yes. My wife and I are having her until she’s well enough to return to her own home.’

  ‘Nice of you to do that, Sir.’ Rhoda nodded approvingly. ‘Thousands wouldn’t bother.’ And, giving him a condescending sort of smile, she walked away, leaving Lorimer feeling that she had somehow wrong-footed him.

  He hadn’t wanted this to be public knowledge, but then it was no use blaming Rosie since he hadn’t exactly hidden his private life away. But it made him simmer inside to think that DI Rhoda Martin would now be making comparisons between his own situation and that of Colin Ray. He had to crack this case now, or be made to look totally incompetent.

  It had been an idea gnawing away at him based on a case from way back where a man facing financial ruin had taken his own life and those of his family. The fire and the reason behind it: both had provoked this notion. Had it been the murder of two people, after all? A call to the local doctor had given Lorimer enough reason to drive back up the country road to Kilmacolm. It was a fresh day, a brisk westerly wind blowing away the last vestiges of rain clouds over the river towards Dunoon and the Cowal Hills. Inland there were signs of spring; wild primroses appearing in sheltered banks by the roadside, a lark rising from its thicket of nest to soar into the blue. Lorimer longed to pull over and watch its flight, but there were too many matters ahead of him today.

  The doctors’ surgery was on the main road running through the village from Port Glasgow to Bridge of Weir. Lorimer found a space in the car park and walked round the corner to the grey stone building.

  ‘Superintendent Lorimer to see Doctor Hamilton,’ he informed the receptionist in a tone that he hoped was quiet enough not to attract the attention of the other patients who were waiting behind their magazines.

  ‘Please go right through. Doctor Hamilton is expecting you,’ the woman told him, indicating the door to her left.

  A quick knock was all it took, then Lorimer was in the consulting room. A pretty woman in her mid-thirties stood up immediately, came around her desk and shook his hand.

  ‘Take a seat, Superintendent. And thanks for coming,’ she added. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do after Sir Ian’s death. It wasn’t something I was prepared for, I suppose.’

  ‘Doctor Hamilton, I told you on the telephone that I am investigating the deaths of Sir Ian and Lady Pauline.’ Lorimer hesitated, then looked straight at the woman, his blue eyes holding her as he spoke again. ‘Do you have any reason to think that this fire might have been started by Sir Ian himself?’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Dr Hamilton dropped her gaze and clasped her hands together tightly. ‘I should have said something at the time, shouldn’t I? It was just that . . .’

  ‘Sir Ian wanted you to keep it from his family?’ Lorimer supplied.

  ‘You guessed, then?’

  ‘It was something to support a theory I’ve had,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘He had a form of prostate cancer that isn’t easily treated,’ the doctor told him. ‘It would have killed him eventually. He knew that. But he didn’t want anyone to make a fuss. No therapies, nothing. If he was going to die, then it had to be on his own terms. He was that sort of man, Superintendent,’ Dr Hamilton said, shaking her head as if in despair at the vagaries of human nature. ‘But do you really think he would have let his wife die in the fire? Surely that was an accident? And that beautiful house?’ She shook her head again sadly.

  ‘It’s hard to surmise what was on his mind at the time, doctor. And that was one reason why I wanted to see you. As his GP you were better placed than most to know that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she began. ‘He was a private sort of person. A bit fierce, if you want to know the truth, but that may have been because of the pain and the fact that his sex life had been on hold for so long. Ian Jackson came to me for medical help, yes, but he was not the sort of man to ask for anything else. No hand to hold, I’m afraid.’ She smiled tremulously as if she had been saddened by her patient’s reticence as much as the nature of his death.

  ‘And you would be prepared to say as much in a court of law?’

  ‘Of course.’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘If it sh
ould come to that.’

  Lorimer had not been surprised to find that Hugh Tannock also lived in Kilmacolm. The village was home to many captains of industry and weel kent names, as Betty MacPherson would have put it. Just a forty-minute drive from Glasgow by fast car, and half that time from the international airport, the village was perfectly situated for anyone who wanted easy access to Scotland’s largest city while enjoying a rural existence.

  Tannock’s house was set high above Gryffe Road, minutes away from the surgery, its façade facing down the valley towards the road that led to Quarriers Village. It seemed to the detective that the windows glinting in the morning sunshine were disdainful eyes surveying the scene below. The green sward of lawns swept around the white house ending in masses of thick rhododendrons that screened the place from passing traffic. He was expected and so the tall black metal twin gates were open but, after he drove the Lexus up towards the front entrance, he saw them close silently behind him. Tannock lived alone, Lorimer reasoned, so it was sensible to have such security measures, but still he felt an uneasy sense of having been taken hostage by the man he was about to visit.

  Lorimer had expected to meet at the factory but Tannock had invited him here instead. To see how the other half lived? Maggie had joked when he’d told her. But whatever the man’s reason, Lorimer was curious. Psychologically Tannock would have the advantage of being on his home turf, playing the host. Did that mean he had some inkling about why the detective had requested another meeting? That, and many other questions, would shortly be answered.

  The driveway was mossy underfoot, not through neglect but rather as if the owner preferred a rustic type of pathway. Close up he saw that the lawn was in perfect condition, more like the greens at Kilmacolm golf club, and Lorimer wondered if the same groundsman cared for it. He pressed a bell set into the side of the porch and waited.

  Looking around, the detective could see the distant hills, patches of sunlight making their flanks an emerald green. That was Misty Law, surely? He’d climbed it with Maggie once after they had been to Muirshiel Country Park to see the hen harriers. For a moment Lorimer wondered what it must be like to be Hugh Tannock, living here with this fabulous view that all his millions had bought him. Then he thought of Pauline Jackson and remembered just what the man had actually lost.

  ‘Superintendent Lorimer, do come in. Sorry I didn’t come down sooner. On a call.’ Tannock was suddenly there in the vast doorway, ushering Lorimer into his house.

  ‘My housekeeper’s away down to the village for some shopping, ’ Tannock explained. ‘Do come through to the kitchen and we’ll have a cup of something. Eh?’

  Lorimer tried not to stare at the huge reception hall as he followed. There was a highly polished table, bigger than his dining table at home, on which stood an immense floral display. The oak-panelled walls were adorned with paintings in gilded frames and the art historian in Lorimer was provoked to wonder at their provenance. He badly wanted to examine these oils to find a signature. And that wasn’t really a Rubens, hanging over on that wall, was it?

  ‘In here,’ Tannock called and the detective lengthened his stride to follow the man into a surprisingly old-fashioned kitchen from which music was playing. It looked, to Lorimer, like his idea of a perfect farm kitchen with its long, scrubbed pine table and chairs fitted with bright patchwork cushions. They were slightly faded and the stitching was a little frayed in places but for some reason Tannock had kept them. Had they been painstakingly stitched by the hand of Mrs Tannock, his ex-wife? Or were they from a more distant past? Lorimer let his eyes rove around the kitchen, enjoying what he saw. A cream-coloured Aga and a Welsh dresser full of blue and white china added to the picture. All it needed, he thought, was a cat sleeping somewhere to complete this vision of domestic bliss. As if his thought had conjured it up, a black and white moggy rose from its place on one of the chairs, stretching its back in a furry arc.

  Tannock stroked its fur. ‘This is Monty,’ he said, then looked quizzically up at Lorimer. ‘You’re all right with cats? Some folk can’t stand them, others are allergic.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Lorimer told him, strolling over to tickle the cat under its chin. ‘We’ve got one at home.’

  Tannock grinned suddenly. ‘Good. Knew we had something in common. Cat people.’ He stopped, listening suddenly to the classical version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ coming from the radio in the corner. ‘Freddie Mercury was a cat lover. Did you know that?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching.

  Lorimer nodded. The late Queen star’s fondness for the animals was legendary.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ Grosset asked, kettle in hand.

  ‘Tea, please. Just plain old tea, nothing fancy. And milk, no sugar,’ he added, stretching out his long legs under the table.

  It was the first time in a long time Lorimer had felt so relaxed, sitting here in this warm, comfortable place, Monty purring between them. He had liked Hugh Tannock from their first meeting and now he found himself enjoying being here with the man once more. Nice as it was, it made it harder to ask difficult questions; it would be almost unmannerly to bring up the subject that was uppermost in his mind. But, Lorimer reminded himself, he was here to do a job, not to be beguiled by this affable man and his gracious hospitality.

  But when Tannock had set down the mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits, his face took on a serious expression.

  ‘I have the feeling you’re not here on a social visit, Superintendent. I take it you bring news of an unpleasant sort,’ he added gravely.

  Lorimer took a sip of the tea before replying. The biscuit plate remained untouched.

  ‘Lady Pauline,’ he began and looked the man straight in the eyes.

  ‘Ah.’ Tannock sighed and gave a nod. ‘I wondered how long that would take you.’

  ‘You should have told me about your relationship with her,’ Lorimer rebuked him gently.

  Tannock raised his eyebrows and gave a shrug. ‘But why? It wasn’t in any way relevant to your inquiries.’

  ‘I think that’s a matter for me to decide, sir,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘Well, I can’t see what bearing our . . .’ He stopped as if the word affair was too distasteful to utter aloud. ‘Our friendship,’ he said at last. ‘How can it be important to their deaths?’

  Lorimer was silent for a moment. This was the question he had been struggling with. There was one possibility that he had considered based on another high-profile house fire.

  ‘Did Sir Ian know about you and Pauline?’

  Tannock frowned. ‘I honestly didn’t think so. But what if he did?’

  Lorimer pushed the mug of tea away. ‘There was a case a few years back where a house was deliberately set on fire, its occupants killed in the process. That fire was started by the owner who died alongside his wife and child.’

  Tannock nodded, stunned by the memory of a tragic case that had made newspaper headlines for weeks. ‘I remember the one you mean. But he’d been in a terrible financial situation, hadn’t he? Jackson Tannock Technology is a thriving business and Ian had nothing like that to worry him.’

  Lorimer let the silence between them deepen. Then the man before him groaned, his hands covering his face as the implication of his own words sank in. Had Ian Jackson taken his own life and that of his wife in a fit of jealousy? It was a question that Lorimer did not need to ask. It was there in the room, a horrible possibility that might never be proved this side of eternity. Suddenly the warmth from the Aga was stifling and the ticking clock on the wall above it seemed unnaturally loud. Monty, he noticed, had slipped off Tannock’s knee and disappeared out of the room.

  ‘The accelerant?’ Tannock asked hopefully. ‘Wasn’t it put there by someone else?’

  ‘Traces were found in and around the house and a chip pan had been deliberately left to burn. It was right underneath their bedroom. If it was done by an intruder then he had easy access to the house.’ Lorimer watched the man closely, seeing the doubt in his eyes change to de
spair.

  ‘It’s not something that I can put in a report since it’s only a theory. If forensic evidence comes to light to corroborate this idea, though . . .’ Lorimer shrugged to show what might happen in that scenario. ‘But there is something else I think you ought to know, Mr Tannock.’ Lorimer watched the man’s face carefully as he continued. ‘Sir Ian was dying of cancer.’

  All the colour seemed to drain from Hugh Tannock’s face as he took in the detective’s words. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered at last.

  Lorimer nodded. ‘I’ve just spoken with his doctor. Sir Ian had insisted that his condition be kept secret from his family. But it does create a different sort of scenario now, doesn’t it? A man with a reason to kill himself, and perhaps to destroy everything he loved.’

  ‘Oh, Pauline, what have I done to you?’ Tannock whispered, stumbling from the table. He groped his way towards the Belfast sink, holding on to its edge for support. Then he turned his gaze to a picture beside the windowsill. Picking it up, he held to his chest, shoulders heaving in silent sobs.