by Alex Gray
‘A goner, then,’ he murmured.
The doctor turned at the sound of his words.
‘Who are you?’ He frowned.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer. We’ve been investigating the previous attack on this particular victim,’ he said.
The man in blue scrubs gazed up at him and shook his head. ‘Victim? You can’t call him that. Not yet, anyway.’
Then Lorimer was aware of other men beside him, a trolley ready to transport Guilford inside the hospital once again.
The doctor touched his sleeve, motioning him back from the medics who now lifted Guilford’s bloody body from the ambulance steps.
‘This man isn’t dead.’
It was not just a physical cordon that surrounded the scene now, Lorimer thought to himself as daylight began to show along the city’s horizon. He had enabled a different kind of security to surround the place, here, where Guilford’s life still hung in the balance. Let them think he is dead, he’d told a select group of men and women earlier. Guilford would no longer pose a threat, the hospital and staff safer to go about their business, he’d argued. But, underlying that decision was the scheme to keep one step ahead of these dangerous gunmen. The press were going to have a field day reporting on the carnage that had taken place, innocent people caught up in the whole bloody business. It was going to be hard to dissemble right now and so the best thing to do was say absolutely nothing to them. For, what could he tell them? That Peter Guilford had been shot whilst attempting to escape? Or had in fact been the target of those gunmen all along?
He was in a small room high above the continuing bustle on the ground, looking towards the city. The familiar shapes of Glasgow could be seen beyond; the university tower, the Hydro like a half shell gleaming in the morning sun, a glint of gold from the Sikh temple over in Finnieston . . . emblems of a city that was itself a multifaceted place. A seat of learning that had once earned the title of knife capital of Europe; a place that could be riven with sectarian violence yet had played host to the legendary Garden Festival back when he was a boy, and more recently to what had been described as the best ever Commonwealth Games. A city proud of itself and still humbled in shame by those seeking their own ends through violent means.
He was a tool, that was all, Lorimer thought. A man striving to make this city work a little better. And, if he could succeed in that then perhaps it would be sufficient to say that his had been a life well lived.
He turned away from the window, heading for the door. The morning was still young and today would bring many people asking difficult questions. The time for such thoughts would come later, once he had succeeded in tracing the people who had carried out this city’s latest atrocity.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Cynthia sat trembling, her hand drawing out to take the glass. But it was empty. She had drunk the last of the bottle hours ago, anxiety of waiting replaced by the knowledge that she would never see him again.
The TV news report was still playing on the screen before her, sound turned to mute, the newsreel strip endlessly telling her the facts.
He was dead. That was surely the only fact she needed to know, yet still she sat, watching the words revolve as if somehow they might change and make everything different.
Why had they come here? Why had she been gulled into making that telephone call, letting these mysterious people know the moment Peter was going to be taken away? If she hadn’t done that . . . Her brain refused to continue, tears flowing once more as she howled in anguish, a raw animal sound.
It was her fault, hers and hers alone. Not the men who had fired these deadly shots. Guilt consumed her as the images on the television screen showed the pictures once more: the hospital concourse, now a scene of crime with police vehicles in attendance, aerial shots that panned in on the place where it had happened, the ambulance still there, its sides pitted with bullet holes. Then these faces, dead men just doing their job, a paramedic who had been there to take care of Peter and two prison officers; strangers who had nothing to do with Cynthia Drollinger except that she’d been responsible for their deaths.
Really she should be dead too, but all through the night Cynthia had baulked at the idea of swallowing a handful of pills even to end the misery that had overwhelmed her. The coward’s way out, she’d told herself. Yet it was not a warped sense of pride that had stopped her but the knowledge that she deserved to suffer as she was suffering now. No eternal hell could possibly be as bad as this.
Outside, the sounds of the city waking up did nothing to make Cynthia leave her place in front of the television. Her bags were still packed and waiting in the hallway, the notion of departure with Peter uppermost just a few hours ago. Whoever came into the office would find that Ms Drollinger had not arrived to open up and eventually someone would call to find out why. But Cynthia did not care about things like that any more
When the doorbell rang she ignored it. They would go away eventually, she decided. But then the hammering began and shouts of ‘Police! Open up!’ made Cynthia jump from her place, hand to her throat. It was no more than she deserved, she thought, heading for the door, not bothering to check the spyhole first.
Shaking fingers drew the chain aside and unlocked the door. Standing there were two large figures of men, one who stepped forward with a grin on his face.
‘You—’ she began, but Cynthia Drollinger’s words were cut off for ever as the man thrust forward, the deadly knife plunging into her body.
*
It was sheer bad luck, Kirsty thought, looking at the letter in her hand. Her interview had been brought forward and now she would be asking herself some serious questions about what sort of future she really wanted. James had given her until Friday lunchtime to make up her mind, stressing how he had to give the US firm an answer. They’re five hours behind us, pet, he’d told her. But I think they’ll want to know our decision when they come into work Friday morning.
Our decision, James had said. He would not go away without her if she decided that her career meant so much.
Should she tempt fate? Decide to stay if she received that promotion? Go with James to Chicago if she was passed over? It was like tossing a coin and really, that was unfair on James, who deserved better for his patience with her.
The events of the previous night cast a dark shadow over everyone today, Kirsty knew, glancing around at her colleagues. All talk was about the shooting and the latest reports from the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. She bit her lip, feeling guilty for even thinking about her own personal problem when somewhere across the city families were weeping for the loss of loved ones.
‘Who would benefit from Peter Guilford’s death?’ Lorimer asked, looking around at the MIT officers assembled once more in the Helen Street building.
‘No children from his previous marriage?’ one of the officers in the room asked.
‘No. And no siblings either,’ another replied.
‘So, on the event of his death who inherits the Guilford business plus the house and Dorothy Guilford’s estate?’ a female DS queried. ‘Must amount to a pretty penny.’
Lorimer nodded at the woman. ‘Take that as your immediate action. We can’t rule anything out, even if there appears to be no connection to this current attack.’
They had concentrated mainly on Guilford’s links to the traffickers, something they all now believed was far more than simply supplying vehicles. The paperwork obtained from his city centre offices was all above board, of course, and Lorimer was certain that anything incriminating would have long since been shredded by his faithful secretary.
He gave a sigh. ‘We’re still keeping quiet about Guilford,’ he told them. ‘And I think our next step should be to bring in Ms Drollinger.’ He glanced around, seeing looks of approval from his fellow officers. ‘She is to be under the impression that her lover is now dead and gone. So let’s see what she might be willing to tell us.’
Lorimer stood at the doorway, a feeling of nausea rising in his
gullet. He would never know what part this woman had played in the carnage at the hospital but her body lying here was testament to some involvement in that story, of that he was sure. The officers who had been dispatched to bring the woman to Helen Street had found her there and even now it looked as if they had been just an hour or so too late. The body had been still warm when they had examined it, showing that death had occurred not long before their arrival.
He stepped alongside the bloodied corpse, noting the blood spray across the wall by the open door. Something for forensics to add to the story of what had taken place.
Her cases were stacked along the hallway, evidence of a decision to escape, something that had been thwarted by her killer. Lorimer moved carefully on covered feet, his gloved hands touching nothing, aware that his very presence could contaminate the scene. They had suited up in the landing outside the row of flats, watched by a neighbour from a window around the corner until a uniformed officer had intervened and asked her to talk to them instead. Nosy neighbours could be a source of information, even those that seemed mere voyeurs.
Leaving the forensic team to carry out their task, Lorimer walked along the short corridor and entered the main lounge where a television set was switched on, the sound turned to mute. He took note of the empty whisky bottle and the glass sitting on the coffee table between the television and the settee, a pile of crumpled tissues stuffed under the cushion where she had been sitting.
The story here was easy enough to read: Cynthia Drollinger had been sitting watching the news as it came in with the latest tragedy to hit their city, a tragedy that now included the woman herself. She must have believed that Peter was dead. And that would have been to Lorimer’s advantage had he been able to question her, something that would never happen now.
But why had she been about to leave? He glanced down at the settee and saw a large tan leather handbag propped open to one side. It was the sort of designer bag he’d seen in glossy Sunday supplements and appeared to be brand new.
‘A new bag for a new beginning?’ he murmured aloud. Perhaps its contents might add to whatever Cynthia Drollinger had been planning before she had been halted by the attack at the hospital.
He laid them out on the laminate floor one by one: her phone, a purse stuffed with banknotes (some of them euros), a wallet full of credit cards and her passport as well as a small leather diary with GUILFORD VEHICLE HIRE embossed in gold lettering. A set of keys had been placed in a side zipped pocket (the office keys, perhaps? Or did they fit the house in St Andrew’s Drive?). A pack of mint chewing gum, a Chanel lipstick and a small perfume spray, a glass nail file in its plastic sleeve and another set of keys with a leather Volkswagen fob that would no doubt match one of the cars in the underground garage.
Already Lorimer’s mind was allotting actions to different members of his team: the phone would tell them something once it was examined and calls traced, but right now he took the diary in his hands and opened it.
Had she ever suspected that the hands of a policeman would open these pages, Lorimer doubted that Cynthia Drollinger would ever have written upon them.
He began by flicking back to the date when Dorothy Guilford had been found dead. There, in red pen, underscored were the words:
free at last!!!
Alan McCauley would love this, Lorimer thought grimly, though in truth there was nothing incriminating about expressing such a sentiment. Counsel for the prosecution would have made mince of the woman, though.
There were dates circled in red, sometimes with the letter P in bold, surely a sign of the times when they had met? The frequency of the letters had diminished, naturally, after Guilford’s arrest. Yet there were occasional dates underlined when she had visited him in hospital; once a scribbled note: bring more pyjamas, the sort of wifely thing that a woman in love would do.
The final entry had been made the day before but what it meant Lorimer could not fathom. A series of numbers, possibly a telephone number, but certainly not anything within the UK. That was also something for one of the team to follow up, he thought. Who had she known overseas? And was it connected to the atrocity at the hospital?
He flicked back to the weeks before the death of Dorothy Guilford, noting more circled dates and, yes, there it was again, the same series of numbers but this time with a name beneath: Simon.
Lorimer frowned. Was this some sort of code? Simon in the New Testament had also been known as Peter. But then he noticed the mark above the letter i. Not Peter Guilford, then, but someone from Europe called Símon. He tapped the edge of the notebook thoughtfully. He’d seen numbers like that before, hadn’t he? And, if he was correct, what he was looking at was a telephone number somewhere in Slovakia.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When her phone rang she saw straight away that it was a text from Rosie.
Can we talk? At home? Are you free today?
Kirsty glanced up at the other officers in the room. She had several actions on a house-breaking case to follow up but it was all paperwork. Could she find the time to slip out? Nobody had asked for her to do anything more specific today and McCauley was out of the office.
Can make time. Say over lunch? 1 at yours?
The reply came back saying yes and Kirsty closed her phone, curious to know why she had been summoned by her friend.
When Kirsty drew up at the parking bay near the Brightmans’ flat she spotted Rosie and Solly sitting on the front door steps with Abby between them, enjoying the sunshine.
‘Well, this looks nice,’ Kirsty told them. ‘No work on a Monday for you three?’
‘Nursery finished last week,’ Rosie explained.
‘And I don’t have classes this late in the year,’ Solly reminded her. ‘Rosie likes to come back home for lunch.’ He looked across affectionately at his wife.
‘Though it’s taking me longer to walk back from the office every day,’ she joked.
‘And we’re off to see the ducks, aren’t we,’ Solly said, patting Abby’s curls. Kirsty gave a small frown. Nice and all as it was to be in their company, the text from Rosie had seemed to convey a sense of urgency and she only had a limited amount of time to spend away from her own place of work. Besides, she had actually planned to mug up on some details for Friday’s interview during her lunch break.
‘Ah.’ Rosie smiled as a grandmother wheeling a large pram, a small toddler in tow, passed them by and headed into Kelvingrove Park, a teenage girl walking beside them, her hand devoid of any rings resting on the side of the pram. ‘How times have changed! Nice to see a mum so willing to help her own daughter like that.’
‘Sally Gardiner is as proud as punch to be a grandmother,’ Solly murmured as they watched their neighbour walk along the path. ‘Loves these chidden to bits and doesn’t give two hoots about her girl being a single mum.’
‘Poor Shirley Pettigrew never had that sort of mother’s love,’ Rosie said.
‘Who?’ Solly asked.
‘Shirley Pettigrew, Dorothy Guilford’s older sister,’ Kirsty chipped in.
‘I thought her name was Finnegan,’ Solly said. ‘Did she marry the lad, then?’
‘That must have been later,’ Rosie replied as Kirsty listened, intrigued to know where the conversation was heading.
‘I was told that the baby’s father fled the scene almost at once. Shirley was left to fend for herself.’
‘She married Finnegan years later,’ Kirsty explained. ‘I looked it all up to check. She divorced him a fair while back. Kept too much to the wrong side of the law for Shirley’s liking, I suppose.’
‘What happened to the child?’ Solly asked.
Both women gave a shrug as Abby began to squirm in her father’s arms. ‘Ducks, Daddy!’ she protested.
He laughed. ‘Okay, let’s take a walk to see your ducks, my girl.’
‘Sorry about that, Kirsty, I thought we’d be alone for a while. Come on up and I’ll put the kettle on. Solly made enough sandwiches for an army!’
As she prepared lunch, Rosie explained about the second post-mortem and that it would take place soon.
‘I need to be sure that have all my facts right,’ she confided in the girl. ‘It’s so vital that we understand the truth about what happened to Dorothy.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I know I seem stubborn and obsessed about this,’ she continued, putting out a hand and touching Kirsty’s arm, ‘but I want to know what she was thinking at that moment.’
‘Only the dead really know. You must have had that thought umpteen times,’ Kirsty replied. ‘So, tell me, how can I help?’
‘If Dorothy took her own life then she must have had a reason.’
‘Maybe she thought she was terminally ill?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘I’ve spoken to her GP and it couldn’t have been that. Dorothy was a regular visitor to the practice. But she did telephone her old doctor,’ she explained. ‘And he told me that Dorothy was terrified that Peter Guilford was planning to kill her.’
‘So, let me get this straight. If she thought that then why not just scarper? Find a refuge for battered wives?’ Kirsty demanded.
‘It’s not always as easy as that,’ Rosie replied. ‘Ask Solly and he’ll tell you numerous stories about women who stay in the marital home for all sorts of reasons. It takes a sort of bravery to just get up and leave and lots of these women have had all the courage knocked out of them.’
‘Okay, so she stays and expects to be murdered?’ Kirsty screwed up her face in disbelief.
‘Where would she go?’ Rosie asked. ‘She’s estranged from her only sister, there are no other relatives we know of . . . ’
‘And it looked to me as if Guilford held the purse strings,’ Kirsty mused, thinking of the dowdy clothes hanging in that massive wardrobe in St Andrew’s Drive.