Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ the nurse replied doubtfully.

  ‘Please,’ Cynthia begged. She scrabbled in her handbag and pulled out one of her business cards. ‘Look. Here’s my number. Just ring me. Please?’

  The nurse took the card that Cynthia held out and slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘Oh, all right, but I hope this doesn’t get me into any trouble,’ she muttered.

  Cynthia shot her a grateful look then walked swiftly away, head down, too blinded by tears to notice anyone else passing her by.

  ‘Oh, I would say he’s making a good recovery, Superintendent,’ the consultant told Lorimer. ‘Better than we could have expected after the protracted period when he was in a coma.’ Mr Ahasan shrugged. ‘The brain is a fascinating organ, and the human skull is far more robust than most people suppose it to be.’

  ‘When might he be fit for discharge?’

  The consultant pursed his lips and thought before answering. ‘Ideally we would like all of his functions to be back to normal. His blood pressure is still giving a little concern. Fluctuates.’ He nodded. Then he gave a little smile. ‘Most probably when you come to visit, I’d say.’

  They stood aside as a thin, dark-haired woman rushed past them and hurried along the corridor.

  ‘That’s his . . . secretary,’ Ahasan told Lorimer as the two men followed her with their eyes. ‘She seems quite upset, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Has he had any other visitors?’ Lorimer asked, though in truth he knew the answer to that, the on-duty police officer keeping a close watch on the man who was still under suspicion for murdering his wife.

  Mr Ahasan’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘Just the ones you already know about,’ he smiled. ‘That lady . . . from his business,’ he remarked tactfully, though the raised eyebrows told Lorimer that the consultant saw more than he was letting on. ‘Then of course there have been visits from his solicitor and the prison governor.’

  Lorimer nodded. They had kept a close eye on Cynthia Drollinger, the whispers that had passed between the patient and his secretary appearing more than merely business talk. Kirsty’s impression was that Drollinger and Guilford had been in an intimate relationship and this seemed to be true. And her obvious distress might just be the perfect time to confront Guilford and ask some more awkward questions.

  ‘You again.’ Guilford’s words were accompanied by a glare of resentment. ‘Cannae leave me in peace, can you?’

  ‘Michael Raynor,’ Lorimer began. ‘He wasn’t always a prison officer, was he?’

  Guilford turned his head away, refusing to meet the detective superintendent’s eyes.

  ‘A soldier for a good few years before that, wasn’t he?’

  Guilford shrugged, still looking away from the tall man’s stare.

  ‘Let me tell you a little about him,’ Lorimer continued. ‘Humour me for a few minutes, will you? I’m sure you know all of this already but let’s see, shall we?’

  He could hear Guilford’s sigh as he let his head sink into the pillows, saw the tightening jaw and wondered if he was wasting his time here with the man.

  ‘Michael Raynor was brought up in Huddersfield, father was a soldier and his two younger brothers also went into the forces.’ He paused for a moment but there was no flicker of interest in Guilford’s expression so he plunged on. ‘Michael had an unblemished service record, even received a commendation for bravery when he was out in Slovakia.’

  He stopped. Was that a muscle moving in Guilford’s face? And was that ripple beneath the bedclothes a fist suddenly clenching? Perhaps.

  ‘Slovakia,’ Lorimer repeated. ‘Bit of a coincidence that the people to whom you rented your vans came from there, isn’t it, Peter?’

  Guilford turned and looked at the detective. ‘So what?’ he sneered. ‘Told you already, I never knew what the clients did once they rented my vehicles.’

  ‘That right?’ Lorimer mused. ‘Maybe Ms Drollinger had a better idea of their ultimate use than her boss. Perhaps I should ask her?’

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Guilford snapped. ‘Cynthia is just an administrator. She does a good job and that’s all.’

  ‘Is it?’ Lorimer left the question hanging and for a moment their eyes met, Guilford looking away first.

  ‘Peter, I’ve asked you this before, but this time I want the truth. What do you know about Max?’

  The man turned his head away then Lorimer heard another sigh.

  ‘Tell the nurse I need to have a rest,’ Guilford said at last. ‘You’ve tired me out again, Superintendent. Not good for a man in my condition.’ He turned back and looked at Lorimer through narrowed eyes.

  ‘A man in your condition?’ Lorimer replied quietly. ‘You were never meant to get up from the floor of that shower. It’s only by sheer luck that he didn’t finish you off when he had the chance.’

  Guilford’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Two inmates came by, disturbed him,’ Lorimer explained. ‘He pretended that he was trying to help you and had to raise the alarm. Otherwise . . . ’ He shook his head meaningfully.

  Guilford looked away again but this time Lorimer could see that the colour had drained from the man’s cheeks. Perhaps he was genuinely tired? The emotion caused by his previous visitor would have taken its toll, too. But this was no time for pity, not when there was a killer on the loose and the lives of so many trafficked women were at stake.

  ‘You will be taken to Low Moss and kept in a secure unit,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Then you will go for trial.’

  Guilford turned his head back swiftly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you people? I did not kill my wife!’ His fist thumped the bedclothes. ‘She was fine when I came to bed. Then the next time I saw her was down in the kitchen, covered in blood.’

  The man glared at Lorimer, his jaw clenched tight and the detective could see a pulse throbbing in the man’s neck.

  ‘The forensic evidence . . . ’

  Another silent thump on the bedclothes.

  ‘Can they no’ tell the difference between an old stain and a fresh one? I havenae worn that jacket for years!’ Guilford exploded, his Glagow accent thickening as the question burst from him.

  ‘How do you know about the jacket?’

  ‘Frank Dawson’s been keeping me up to date with developments,’ Guilford told him through gritted teeth.

  ‘If it is a particularly old stain then perhaps that can be shown in court. Your defence will make sure of that,’ Lorimer mused.

  ‘That’s what Frank said.’

  Lorimer sat looking at the man for a long moment. ‘Let’s say you are found not guilty of Dorothy’s death,’ he began, choosing his words carefully. The word murder might not apply if Rosie Fergusson’s theory was correct, after all. ‘What then? You go back to work, you are asked to hire out vehicles again . . . and perhaps one day the client who comes to your premises turns out to be Michael Raynor. A man who evidently wanted to see you dead.’

  ‘Then, Superintendent, your lot better make sure and find him before that happens,’ Guilford replied.

  ‘Why did he want to kill you, Peter?’ Lorimer asked softly, leaning as close to the man as he dared. But Guilford had turned away and closed his eyes, one hand already on the buzzer to alert his dedicated nurse.

  Margaret Daly had been hard to track down again, her different little cleaning jobs taking her all over Pollokshields where the owners of so many big houses required her services. Kirsty stood at the woman’s own door and rang the bell. The sound of Big Ben played out on chimes made her smile. This would be a perfect home, she guessed, with all of the frills and furbelows exactly right, no speck of dust permitted anywhere.

  ‘Aw, hen, it’s you again!’ Margaret Daly beamed at Kirsty and the detective smiled back as she was ushered indoors in marked difference to the frosty reception she had received from Shirley Finnegan.

  Kirsty’s smile broadened as she entered the sitting room, her guess about Mrs Daly’s home spot on. A glance showed her that each cu
shion on the armchairs and twin settees was balanced on its points, the sweeping curtains held back with decorative bronze holdback arms and a cluster of tiny crystal ornaments arranged on the well-polished side table by the window, the sunlight glancing off their facets in rainbow hues.

  ‘Well, now, nice tae see you, lassie. But I ’spect you’ve come on business,’ Margaret Daly said, sitting down next to Kirsty and affecting a serious expression. ‘Is it about pair wee Dorothy, then?’

  Kirsty smiled and shook her head. ‘Only sort of,’ she told the cleaning lady. ‘We have another investigation that impinges on this one,’ she said.

  Margaret frowned and Kirsty decided it was best not to explain ‘impinged’ but leave the word hanging. Sometimes being deliberately obscure was the best way forward.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about a man,’ she continued. Then, bringing out a folded sheet she smoothed it out and laid it in front of the older woman.

  ‘Oh, aye, I know that face,’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘It wis yon Michael that came to see Dorothy,’ she said. ‘Lovely big fellow, so handsome in his uniform. But then,’ she gave Kirsty a playful nudge with her elbow, ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for a man in uniform.’

  ‘So, you know him?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Not know him, exactly, dearie, I just met him the times he was in the house when I happened to be cleaning, that’s all. Oh!’ Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Don’t tell me something’s happened to him! Poor boy! And him that brave to help yon other one, too!’

  ‘Other one?’

  ‘Aye, never said much, pair sowel.’ She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Maybe a wee want. His face . . . dear God, what a sight! All burned away and skin grafted back on. Gave me the willies, so it did!’

  Kirsty’s heart seemed to miss a beat. ‘This other man. Do you remember his name?’

  Mrs Daly shook her head. ‘Sorry, hen. But I ’member Dorothy was real kind to him. Funny, that. She wis never that soft tae onybody else. Och, I’ve no’ bin much help, have I, lass? And . . . is it something serious?’

  Kirsty patted her arm reassuringly. ‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Daly,’ she soothed. ‘We just need to find Michael and speak to him about something, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank Gawd for that,’ she sighed. ‘I thought you were going to tell me some bad news. Poor Dorothy doted on that pair o’ laddies. I could see that. Came from not having any of her own, I suppose. But then you can always fall for a nice face and a smart turnout.’

  ‘Dorothy fancied him?’

  ‘Get away with you, it was nothing like that, lassie. She jist . . . ’ Margaret Daly stared into space as though trying to find the right word. ‘Dorothy needed to be the lady bountiful, I suppose. Took them under her wing.’

  ‘How did they meet?’

  Margaret Daly shrugged. ‘I don’t know and that’s Gawd’s honest truth. One day the laddies just turned up and then the quiet one wid be there sometimes, not often, mind. But I got the feeling . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  Margaret Daly screwed up her face in concentration. ‘I think she must have known him from way back,’ she mused. ‘But I don’t know how. He was English, you see. Like Michael. And the Pettigrews had no family in England far as I know.’

  Kirsty nodded. ‘Thanks, Mrs Daly. That’s been a big help. We might find Michael Raynor through some other channels . . . ’

  ‘Raynor?’ Margaret Daly looked up, surprised. ‘Wis that his name?’

  Kirsty nodded.

  ‘Well, if you say so. My memory’s that bad nowadays it’s a wonder I can remember ma own name at times!’ she chuckled. ‘I get names all mixed up nowadays. Maybe I’m thinking on that ither one, the one with the burns . . . oh, what was his name now?’

  Kirsty waited patiently but it was evident the old lady was struggling to remember.

  Raynor had certainly been the name given by his regiment and was on his UK passport as well as his driving licence and so perhaps the cleaning lady was simply mixed up, Kirsty decided as she rose to leave.

  ‘Have you any idea when Dorothy’s funeral will be . . . ’ Margaret Daly asked as she showed Kirsty out. ‘Only I was hoping to pay my respects.’

  ‘Sorry, her body won’t be released for burial just yet,’ Kirsty said. ‘But if you give me a mobile number I can text you when there is some news?’

  ‘Aye, here it is,’ Margaret said, fishing in the pocket of her cotton dress and bringing out a slightly dog-eared card: Daly’s Cleaning.

  The woman had the grace to blush as Kirsty looked at the card. It was supposed to be a few wee jobs on the side, but maybe the cleaning lady raked in more cash than she was letting on. Still, she was doing the police some favours so Kirsty would keep this to herself. After all, if she did quit the force, who was to know what this kindly woman did in her own time? And besides, perhaps she did pay tax on all of her extra income.

  The walk back along by Bellahouston Park gave Kirsty time to reflect on her visit. Above, the trees were waving in a gentle breeze, their lime green still fresh before the humidity of the coming months. Margaret Daly had seen a lot of changes in that family; the disgraced Shirley banished from the house, Dorothy’s parents passing away and now this tragic death. How, she wondered, had it affected the visiting soldiers? Had he lashed out at the prisoner because he had held some affection for Dorothy Guilford? She frowned. Was it a mere coincidence that Raynor had been a prison officer at Barlinnie when Guilford was there on remand? There was certainly nothing to show to the contrary. Often, the young detective knew, people took advantage of situations that gave them opportunities. And, if this Michael Raynor had been someone special in Dorothy Guilford’s life, then why hadn’t they heard about him before? And who was his quiet friend? It was a puzzle.

  A figure striding towards her put all thoughts of the case aside as she stopped, the detective superintendent returning her wave.

  ‘Hello, out for a breath of fresh air? Have to admit I needed a break myself,’ he told her as they fell into step, heading back to HQ.

  ‘We have had a possible sighting of Raynor,’ he told her. ‘Out past Shawfield Stadium. Could be nothing, but we’re following up everything right now.’

  Kirsty studied the tall man loping by her side. He looked careworn and she wondered if that would be how she might appear to others if she climbed the promotion ladder and spent her days and nights ferreting out society’s ne’er-do-wells. For a moment the idea made her grimace. It wasn’t what she wanted, was it? To become like some of the other female officers, hardbitten and cynical in their outlook, always trying to show that they were as good as if not better than their male colleagues.

  ‘James has been offered a job in Chicago,’ she blurted out suddenly, making Lorimer stop and stare at her.

  ‘Wow, that’s a big step, isn’t it?’ he remarked. Then, a frown on his face, he added, ‘Where does that leave you, Kirsty? Thought you had your sergeant’s interview coming up?’

  Kirsty looked away and shrugged. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I still have to decide. But if I do leave the police then it will be for good reasons, I promise.’

  She felt his hand clasp her and give it a squeeze.

  ‘I know, lass. Some choices are harder to make than others. But at the end of the day I am sure you will do what’s right for yourself.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she told him.

  ‘What do your mum and dad think?’ he asked.

  It was a reasonable question. Lorimer had known her parents for years, her dad having been his DS at Stewart Street for long enough, and they looked on Lorimer as a family friend as much as anything else.

  When she looked at the ground and didn’t reply, he shook his head and sighed. ‘You haven’t told them?’

  ‘They know about the promotion possibility,’ she mumbled.

  ‘But not about Chicago?’

  ‘It’s a big thing,’ Kirsty insisted, then spread out her left hand, the engagement ri
ng sparkling in the sunshine. ‘They’ll want him to make an honest woman of me now. But I don’t want a big fancy wedding, just family and friends around us.’

  Lorimer grinned but kept quiet and Kirsty laughed. ‘Okay, so we probably will change our minds about that. Can’t see Mum being done out of her daughter’s big day, can you?’

  ‘You are their only child, lass,’ he told her.

  ‘Aye, aye,’ she sighed. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it will all turn out okay. Anyway, how are things going upstairs? Any news of the gang boss?’

  Lorimer made a face. ‘Absolutely no progress on that front though we do have some operatives working in various parts of the city, keeping an eye on several likely places. Trouble is, these prostitution rackets are everywhere and anywhere; not like Aberdeen where they had these old rented flats. This is harder to pin down.’

  ‘Pop-up brothels?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Pop-up everything these days. Makes it hard to keep track of even legitimate businesses.’

  ‘There something I wanted to tell you,’ Kirsty began. ‘It’s about the two—’

  She was interrupted as Lorimer’s phone rang out.

  ‘Sorry, I have to take this,’ he told her, stopping abruptly and putting his mobile to his ear. Stepping away from her, he spoke into the phone, his back turned so that Kirsty could not hear what was being said but she could see from the way his shoulders stiffened that something was up.

  ‘So sorry, I have to go,’ he apologised again. Then, quickening his pace, he glanced to left and right and sped across the road, Kirsty watching as he practically ran back into the red-brick building leaving her curious to know what had made him race off so suddenly. She frowned. Pity that Lorimer hadn’t asked her to be part of the MIT; she would loved to have known every detail about the ongoing operation, not just the bits that he had chosen to reveal to her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Where is she?’ Lorimer demanded as he rushed into the DCI’s room.