by Alex Gray
A sudden draught blew across his desk, rustling the papers. For a moment Lorimer remembered that small, cold wind that had passed him by as he’d lifted the rifle away from the hands of the man who had tried to kill him. Could a hardened cop like himself ever believe that the spirit of a long-dead footballer had really intervened that day? He shook his head. But maybe the legend of Ronnie Rankin would be powerful enough to save his beloved club from a different sort of destruction.
It was late when Lorimer reached home. The rain had stopped and the grey clouds were scudding across the horizon, bringing a freshening wind whistling through the treetops. Summer was almost over and soon the trees would be turning yellow. But there would be no wee ginger cat to play among the fallen leaves.
‘Hi,’ he called out, ready to have Maggie throw herself into his arms in a storm of weeping. But when he walked into the kitchen Lorimer was met by the last thing he expected to see.
‘He’s still here?’ he asked, looking down at Chancer, who was busy washing his paws, then at Maggie who was looking smug.
‘Yes, and he’s ours!’ And now she really was in his arms and he was kissing her face, her lips and she was laughing and crying at once.
‘His owner’s going into a retirement home. Can’t take pets,’ she burbled between happy kisses. ‘And we were asked if we wanted to keep him!’
Lorimer held her tightly, feeling her warmth, sharing in her sheer joy. Then he felt a familiar tap against his trouser leg and he looked down and laughed.
It was Chancer. And their little ginger cat was looking up at them both with an expression on his face that could only be described as a grin.
EPILOGUE
When she opened her eyes it was pitch black. Tonight there would be no moonlight to shine through the thin curtains of her cell. After all these weeks of light-blue skies and rosy sunsets, the nights had become dark and full of shadows. Outside she could hear the wind as it blew a scattering of leaves across the courtyard. Tomorrow might bring more rain and she’d have to wear a warmer jacket.
Janis lay back, staring into the darkness. It would all be over soon. Marion Peters had briefed her well on what to expect. They’d changed her plea to ‘guilty’ so the odds were that she might be out of there within five years, probably a lot less if tomorrow’s judge looked on her case with a modicum of sympathy.
It was strange how she felt a sense of peace now that it was almost over. The weeks of denial had made her tense and brittle, but she had begun to feel a sense of rousing from a bad dream in the wake of Albert Little’s confession. How could she have hoped for someone to get away with these murders? That fact alone had given her a gnawing sense of guilt. In retrospect, it hadn’t been very likely but so long as the killer was on the loose there would be a doubt in people’s minds about Nicko’s death, and Janis Faulkner could continue to hope for a full acquittal.
In the end it had been a relief to tell them the truth. At first she had hesitated then it had all come out in a rush, every last detail. How she’d pulled that kitchen knife out and lunged at her husband as he’d come at her again; how she had washed away every trace and thrown her blood-stained clothing into the dark waters of Loch Lomond. She’d told them every bit about that night and about the day that had followed, even about her efforts to find sanctuary in Mull with her grandfather, Lachie.
But she didn’t quite tell them everything. Not about the continual nightmares, when he came after her. Nor about his eyes and his laughter mocking her or how she’d woken up sweating and trembling night after night. Once she’d almost told that tall policeman, the one with eyes that reminded her of Grandpa Lachie. But she’d persisted with the lie, telling herself that she’d been punished enough already, protesting her innocence to anyone who would listen, even that journalist Greer. And maybe the judge would agree. Maybe tomorrow would bring some sort of future that was untainted with the memory of Nicko’s vicious hands and his voice that had disturbed her sleep for so long now.
It was not yet tomorrow, Janis told herself as she closed her eyes against the darkness. Tomorrow was a new day and might bring a new hope.
She turned on her side, heaved a deep sigh and fell into a dreamless sleep.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for their help and encouragement.
Dr Marjorie Black for her expertise in forensic pathology; Alistair Paton for his breathtaking knowledge of all things ballistic; Alistair McLachlan, Bryan McAusland, Tommy Docherty, Bob Money of St Mirren FC and Alex Totten of Falkirk FC; Sue Brooks, former Governor of HMI Cornton Vale women’s prison, and educational staff Alan Hamilton and Kaye Stewart as well as the prison officers and inmates; Deputy Divisional Commander Brian Lennox and Detective Sergeant Bob Frew of Strathclyde Police; my lovely agent Jenny Brown for her constant support and encouragement, David Shelley and Caroline Hogg my brilliant editors and everyone at Little, Brown for their help and enthusiasm and last, but not least, all those men in strips who put football fans on an emotional rollercoaster for ninety minutes every weekend.
Also available as a Sphere paperback
THE RIVERMAN
Alex Gray
The riverman’s job is to navigate the swirling currents of the Clyde, pulling rubbish from Glasgow’s great river. But occasionally he is required to do something more shocking – such as lifting out corpses.
The day he pulls the lifeless body of a man from the river, it looks like a case of accidental death. But DCI William Lorimer of the Glasgow Police is not convinced. And when he digs deeper, he begins to discover that this case is as explosive they come …
Featuring the most dynamic new Scottish detective since Rebus, The Riverman is a page-turning thriller steeped in the history and atmosphere of Glasgow.
‘Well-written, well-plotted and full of edgy Glasgow atmosphere … Chief Inspector Lorimer is a beguiling creation’ Marcel Berlins, The Times
Crime
978-0-7515-3873-1