by Alex Gray
Another sigh. ‘Don’t really know . . . ’
‘Come on, don’t give me that!’ Lorimer snapped, exasperated at what he felt was another lie.
‘He knew Dorothy,’ Guilford continued. ‘Came to the house once or twice. Maybe more, I don’t know. When I was out, possibly?’
‘And . . . ?’
‘And, nothing. She said he was a family friend from way back.’
‘Can’t have been that far back, Raynor’s just twenty-nine, a good fifteen years younger than your late wife. What was their relationship?’
‘I told you, I don’t know,’ Guilford insisted. ‘Look, he turns up one day in his army uniform and Dorothy greets him like a long-lost son. Blethers on about how nice it is to see him again, blah, blah, blah. ‘
‘You didn’t enquire about the connection between them?’
‘Thought he must be the son of an old friend from school, or something,’ Guilford replied, deliberately avoiding Lorimer’s gaze.
There was something he was not telling the detective; that was obvious. But were there any grains of truth in his story?
‘She knew him well, then?’
Guilford shifted uncomfortably. ‘All I remember was the way Dorothy treated them. I mean him. Like the prodigal son coming back home or something.’
Lorimer noted the stumble. Raynor had not visited Dorothy Guilford alone, then? But with somebody else?
‘He was from down south?’
‘Aye,’ Guilford agreed. ‘Maybe one of her pals had moved away there and she was wanting to make a connection again? I don’t know.’
Don’t know or weren’t interested, Lorimer thought. Peter Guilford did not really seem to have cared much for his late wife or shown any interest in her, except for her wealth and the lucrative business her father had passed on to her.
‘You didn’t ask any questions then?’
‘Too busy,’ Guilford said. ‘Never had much time for social chit-chat. I had a business to run.’ A petulant note crept into his voice as though he were trying to make excuses for his lack of observation of the young man who had befriended his wife. A man who had tried to kill him.
‘Why do you think he attacked you?’
Guilford sighed a long sigh. ‘I’ve been lying here trying to work that out,’ he said, avoiding Lorimer’s eye. ‘Can’t fathom why someone I hardly knew would do that.’
Oh, yes you can, Lorimer told himself, his jaw clenching in sudden anger.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked softly, leaning closer to the patient and fixing him with a blue glare.
But Guilford had closed his eyes.
‘Sure,’ he mumbled. Then, ‘I’m tired now. Please go and leave me in peace.’
‘Michael Raynor was discharged from active service following a tour of duty in Slovakia,’ Niall Cameron told Lorimer. ‘We’ve got his record here. Was in the Royal Regiment of Scotland, funnily enough,’ he said, a glint in his eye. ‘Wonder if there was a connection? Anyway it says here that he was an exemplary soldier, even had a commendation for bravery when he rescued a chap from a burning building.’
The DCI from Lewis looked at Lorimer and smiled. ‘In Slovakia,’ he repeated, watching his boss’s eyebrows rise.
‘When was this?’
‘About two or three years before he joined the prison service. Came back home to the UK when the regiment moved from Germany to North Yorkshire. It was shortly after that he left the army. Think he wasn’t alone in that. According to the fellow I spoke to in Catterick, a few others seemed to have been disillusioned with the service once they were back home.’
‘What was he doing in Slovakia?’ Lorimer looked at his friend and colleague for a long moment and this time it was Cameron’s grey eyes that registered a glimmer of interest.
‘A connection with the Romany people way back then, d’you think?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘Maybe. It all comes back to why Raynor wanted to kill Peter Guilford.’
‘Something to do with the people trafficking?’ Cameron mused. ‘Maybe he fell in with the very people who were busy making plans to have all these women taken from their homes and used in the slave trade over here.’
Lorimer exhaled a huge sigh and shook his head. ‘No point in speculating,’ he said. ‘We need more evidence. And until we know where Raynor is and what his link was to Dorothy Guilford, we’ll never be able to answer that question.’
But one question that had to be answered concerned the victim of that fire. Lorimer had a flicker of insight: a man with a burned face, a man called Max. Was this the same person that Michael Raynor had rescued? And, if so, where was he now?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Kirsty turned on her side and gazed at the tousled dark head on the pillow beside her. It was no use pretending any more, she thought. James was going to go to Chicago and begin a new life there. If she wanted to be part of that life then she had to make the sacrifice of leaving the police and abandoning all of her plans for promotion.
James had been so excited after that trip to London, eyes shining as he had told her about the sort of work he would be doing, the prospects that were his for the asking. He just needed to give them his decision within the week. What did she think?
Lying next to him, feeling that sense of utter contentment that invariably followed their love making, Kirsty thought that James Spencer was probably the best thing that had ever happened to her. Don’t let him go, a small voice insisted. But was that inner thought saying that she should strive to keep him here in Glasgow while she pursued her own career, or that she must hold onto their relationship no matter what? Just at this moment Kirsty would have gladly abandoned her own job and followed her lover wherever he went. No worries about killers on the loose, no dangers to face in car chases or confrontations . . . Oh, hell, but she would miss all of that!
She grinned as she turned onto her back, images of past cases appearing like stills in the slide show of her mind. She’d be removed from the present intrigue, too, Kirsty reminded herself; her duty as a CID officer clashing somewhat with the private investigations she was carrying out on behalf of Rosie Fergusson. That wasn’t all bad, though, she realised. It was fun finding out more and more about the background to Dorothy Guilford’s life and meeting people like the grossly overweight sister, things that hadn’t been part of the official investigation after Guilford’s arrest.
She frowned as the memory of Lorimer’s latest memo had reached her: Michael Raynor has obviously had some sort of relationship with Dorothy Guilford. What that is we have still to discover. The unspoken implication was that Kirsty ought to get a move on and find that out. She could go back and see the elder sister, she mused, see if the name meant anything to her.
With a sigh she cuddled into James’s back and slid an arm around his waist. Later, she told herself; after all, it wasn’t a matter of life or death, was it?
‘You can’t stay here,’ Shirley told the big man standing in the middle of her living room. ‘Told you already. The busies have been snooping around. Fine thing it would be if they found you in my house!’
The man did not reply, simply gave a sniff and nodded. ‘What about the money?’ he asked.
‘It’ll come our way,’ Shirley promised. ‘We just need to hold tight and wait. Don’t you worry. Peter will never get out of that hospital, not if we can help it.’
‘Okay,’ he replied at last, looking at her with an impassive stare. Then he turned on his heel and left the room. Shirley listened as the front door opened then closed again.
Left alone once more, the woman breathed out a sigh of relief. Coming here had been a mistake. And she only hoped that he had the sense to stay away until they had everything sorted.
A shadow from the street outside fell across the room and Shirley glanced around, half expecting to see a figure at the window. But there was nobody.
Dorothy’s presence seemed to hover over them still, she thought with a shudder. In life she had been a constant torment and i
n death she was still wielding some sort of power over them all. It was imperative that Peter should meet with a tragic end before he was whisked away out of their reach to another prison. She sat in the ancient armchair, thinking hard. Yet, no matter how many ideas came to mind, there was only one person that she trusted to carry out that final execution.
‘Hello again, it’s DC Wilson,’ Kirsty announced brightly, smiling at the overweight woman standing on the doormat, a belligerent expression on her jowly face.
‘What d’you want?’ the woman snapped, arms folded across her heavy bosoms as she stood barring the way into her home.
Kirsty forced a smile. ‘Just needed to ask you something,’ she began, glancing over Shirley Finnegan’s shoulders to see if she had any company inside the house; a reason for keeping the detective standing here on the threshold.
The door widened a little and the woman stepped back. ‘Better come in,’ she said grudgingly, slouching along the hallway leaving Kirsty to shut the door and follow her.
‘How are you?’ Kirsty asked, sitting on the arm of the settee that was covered in piles of laundry. Dirty? Or ready for ironing? It was hard to tell from the glance she gave them.
‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to ask after my health,’ Shirley drawled, picking up a packet of cigarettes and reaching for a lighter.
‘You didn’t seem too well last time I was here . . . ’ Kirsty began. ‘But you’re right, I did come here for a particular reason.’
She waited till the woman had lit up and taken a draw from the cigarette then caught her eye.
‘Do you know a man called Michael Raynor?’ she asked, watching intently to see Shirley Finnegan’s reaction.
‘Who?’ The question was accompanied by a frown. But she still gazed into Kirsty’s eyes, no flicker at all, no turning her head to one side.
‘Michael Raynor,’ Kirsty repeated.
Shirley shook her head slowly. ‘Can’t say I do,’ she replied. ‘Funny sort of name that. Never heard it before.’
‘He’s English,’ Kirsty told her, as if that explained the man’s surname.
‘That right?’ Shirley was clearly uninterested. ‘So? Why would I know this person?’
‘I think he might have known your sister.’
‘Ha! That could well be right, Miss Wilson,’ Shirley exclaimed. Then she leaned forward, the ash from her cigarette threatening to fall onto the stained carpet with its telltale burn marks. ‘I hadn’t seen my sister for years,’ she hissed. ‘So I wouldn’t know what sort of company she kept, would I?’
Kirsty bit back a reply. There was more to that answer than Shirley Finnegan might realise. What sort of company? Was she implying that Dorothy had unsuitable friends? Or had some hidden extra-marital relationship? Shirley Finnegan knew more than she was letting on, Kirsty thought. But her reaction to hearing Michael Raynor’s name had thrown the young detective. Perhaps she genuinely knew nothing abut the man who had tried to kill her brother-in-law and Kirsty was wasting her time here.
‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ she told Shirley as she rose to her feet. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she added since it was quite obvious that the woman slumped in her armchair had no intention of performing that particular politeness.
Shirley Finnegan held the second cigarette to the smouldering embers of the first, puffing until she felt the hit of nicotine. Her heart hammered in her chest as she replayed the incident. ‘A friend of Dorothy’s . . . aye, too bloody right,’ she muttered. ‘Maybe I’ll see you both in hell!’
I hadn’t seen my sister for years . . . The phrase kept coming back to Kirsty as she drove back to Helen Street. And every time she repeated the words she wanted to add until . . .
Had Shirley Finnegan seen Dorothy in the days running up to her death? She was not what Kirsty would call a reliable sort of person and she still suspected that some of the things she had been told were outright lies. Had she been in the house in St Andrew’s Drive that night? Had her podgy fist wielded that kitchen knife? There was sufficient animosity against the younger sister to believe that she could have killed her in a moment of temper . . . I hadn’t seen my sister for years until . . . what?
There was something nagging at her, telling her she should be looking in a different place to find that answer but her mind kept drifting back to the cleaning lady, Margaret Daly, and what else she might have to tell about the two Pettigrew sisters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Molly Newton glanced up as the big man entered the salon and then disappeared into the back room that doubled as an office. She tried hard not to let the black gel drip onto her client’s finger as she painted the long curved nail. ‘An’ I says tae her, get a life, will ye?’ The client babbled on about one of her work colleagues, Molly barely listening but nodding from time to time, a fixed smile on her face. She was desperate to finish this job, grab her mobile, dash downstairs and call HQ. That was Michael Raynor who just walked in, she thought, heart drumming with excitement.
‘Just put your hand under there . . . great,’ Molly said, switching on the gel dryer. ‘Just need to nip out for a wee moment . . . ’ But, as she began to rise from her place behind the nail bar, the man emerged once more and stopped, looking around at the girls busy with their clients. His gaze came at last to Molly, who turned away a little, letting her long hair fall across her face.
‘Och, it can wait,’ she told her client. ‘What did that woman do next?’ she asked, pretending interest in the story that had been unfolding a moment before.
She did not look up as a shadow fell across the table, grinning and nodding as she busied herself with tidying up the bottles of lotion and gel, faking a concentration on the other girl’s words. Molly felt the sweat gather along her hairline, conscious of the man standing, staring at her. It would be unnatural not to look up, she thought.
Her lips curved in the sweetest smile as she caught his eye.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ she asked. But he merely continued staring then shook his head, moved away and walked back out of the salon.
‘Funny sort of guy, eh?’ the client remarked, her own eyes following the man as he left.
‘Oh, we get all sorts in here,’ Molly told her cheerfully. ‘Never a dull moment.’ She was conscious of her heart thudding and wondered if Michael Raynor would be waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
At last her client paid and left and Molly rushed into the toilet, whipping out her mobile and pressing the number.
‘It’s me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Michael Raynor just walked in here. He went into the office, came back out and hovered over me and my client then left. What do you want me to do?’
The woman felt a sense of relief when she was told, Do nothing. But that relief was tinged with a sense of foreboding. He knows who I am, she thought, as she gathered up her bag and unlocked the toilet door. Should she follow orders and stay put? Or was it time to creep out after the fugitive and see where he went?
‘Hope Street,’ the radio call went out, giving time and source details. Soon there would be other people following up Molly Newton’s call, searching the city streets for the ex-soldier who had attacked Peter Guilford. A description had already been circulated to every unit in the country, surveillance cameras being monitored all the time, intelligence officers combing the information to catch a glimpse of the wanted man. But, after an hour, it seemed that Raynor had disappeared as though by magic.
‘He has to be holed up somewhere,’ Lorimer fumed. ‘People don’t just vanish in a city like Glasgow!’ His frustration was etched on his face, the cleft between his eyes deepening as his frown darkened. Where was he? Had he spotted Molly Newton, guessed that she was a plant in the nail bar? Just how much did Michael Raynor know about Guilford’s business and was that tied up with the sex trafficking? Is that why he had tried to kill Guilford in Barlinnie Prison? There were too many questions going unanswered. Perhaps it was time to put more pressure on Dorothy Guilford’s husband, Lorimer
decided, looking out at the clear blue skies and wondering how much information he could squeeze out of the man.
‘Don’t.’ Cynthia bit her lip as Peter dropped her hand. ‘Why . . . ?’
‘Shh,’ he whispered, glancing across the room to the open door where a uniformed police officer sat. ‘They watch us all the time, you know. If they suspected . . . ’
‘What? That I love you? That I miss you? Dear God, Peter.’ Cynthia shook her head, her eyes widening.
‘Keep your voice down, will you?’ Peter hissed. ‘If they think we’re more than business colleagues, what do you imagine the prosecution will make of it when the trial begins? Eh?’ He leaned closer towards her. ‘They’d say we wanted Dorothy dead, wouldn’t they? And you, my dear, would be implicated, wouldn’t you?’
Cynthia drew back at the malicious expression on Guilford’s face. ‘Stop it, you’re frightening me!’ she told him, her voice barely a whisper.
‘You can’t keep coming in here,’ Guilford told her. ‘Now go away, Cynthia, do what Frank said. Keep things going at work and stay away from here, d’you hear me?’ His voice rose a little, enough to alert the officer sitting with his newspaper folded across his lap.
The woman gathered up her jacket and stood, ready to leave. For a moment she hesitated, wanting to lean forward and kiss the man in the bed, but a jerk of his head made her turn away and walk swiftly out of the room, past the cop and past two men standing talking in the corridor, hardly seeing them for the tears that were blurring her eyes.
Cynthia paused for a moment by the nurses’ station.
‘Please,’ she began as one of them looked up to see her standing there. ‘You’re his dedicated nurse, right?’
‘Mr Guilford? Yes, I am. What is it?’ the nurse asked, rising from her seat and coming around to take Cynthia by the arm. ‘Are you okay?’
Cynthia fought back the tears. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t know when I will see him again. Please . . . ’ She gulped. ‘Please can you do one thing for me? Let me know the moment anyone comes to take him back to prison? I couldn’t bear it if . . . ’ She choked back the sobs.