Only the Dead Can Tell

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Only the Dead Can Tell Page 31

by Alex Gray


  William Lorimer muttered something incoherent, flinging out a bandaged arm then settling onto his side, some dream or other disturbing his sleep.

  Tomorrow, thought Maggie. I will tell him tomorrow. A new day would dawn and their future together would take a slightly different turn. Yet she was certain that come what may, the man slumbering at her side would always want to be part of the force for good.

  Rosie woke with a small cry of surprise. First a sharp pain then a warm sensation as the waters began to stream into the bedclothes.

  ‘Wake up!’ she said.

  ‘Mmmm?’ Solly rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he turned towards her. ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘It’s started,’ Rosie told him with a smile. ‘Can you get me a pile of towels, please? I’ve wet the bed, I’m afraid.’

  It was daylight by the time they arrived at the hospital, the taxi driver ushering Rosie out carefully.

  ‘Okay, missus, you take care now, eh? Good luck.’ He grinned as the bearded husband thrust a pile of money into his hand.

  He glanced back at the couple before driving off, the man with one arm around her shoulders, the other carrying a holdall, the small blonde woman walking slowly but steadily towards the entrance. A new life about to begin, the driver thought, that was something good to happen amongst all the news of misery. He’d seen it all, heard it all, yet still each time he drove an expectant mum to hospital he had a tingle of anticipation that diminished every bit of his world weariness.

  *

  Solly sat outside the ward, knowing that he was, for the moment, surplus to his wife’s requirements. The nursing staff had made that quite clear. He could go home for a while or come back in half an hour once his wife was settled. It would be a while yet, he was assured.

  The professor of psychology sat still, thinking of all that had taken place in the past few days. A major incident at the hospital, the burned-out farmhouse with two charred bodies found beneath its rubble, then the raid on that Govanhill flat and Lorimer’s apprehension of Max Warnock. It had been a stressful time for them all but now the case appeared to be coming to a satisfactory conclusion. He had still to hear the final outcome of their interview with the former army major and his part in the human trafficking scheme. Meanwhile, Peter Guilford hung between life and death, still evidently on the critical list. Would he be one more statistic to add to the crimes committed by Max Warnock and his foot soldiers? Solly hoped not. Guilford had done some terrible things but nobody deserved to be murdered for them. Besides, he was certain that with the arrest of Warnock Lorimer would be able to prise the truth from Peter Guilford at last.

  He looked up as a nurse came through the double swing doors.

  ‘You can stay with Mrs Brightman meantime,’ she told him. ‘Just don’t tire her out. She’s going to need all her energy for later on.’

  Max Warnock looked different in daylight. Lorimer could see the younger major still in those chiselled cheekbones, the shape of his bald head. The man had been permitted to wear sunglasses in his prison cell but now, in this interview room where the sun barely filtered through the small window, Lorimer motioned for him to remove them.

  The difference in his appearance was immediately evident. Those small, eyes, blinking against the natural light, did indeed make Warnock look like some alien creature, the unnaturally smooth skin adding to the effect. Once, William Lorimer might have pitied the man but now, having seen the misery that Max Warnock had inflicted on his numerous victims, he hardened his heart. Yes, Major Warnock was himself a victim, Solly had reminded him, but the thought of those young women taken from their homes and thrust into prostitution sickened the policeman. Besides that, there was the insidious preying on the mind of an already deranged woman as he had sought to tempt Dorothy Guilford into taking her own life. And the deaths of several more were doubtless down to this man, his own friend, Michael Raynor, amongst them.

  Lorimer looked across the table for a long moment and noted with a small sense of satisfaction that Warnock could not meet his eyes but dropped his head like countless small-time thieves and bigger criminals had over the years when confronted by the detective superintendent.

  He began the interview as he usually did, establishing the man’s name and other essential details for the video recording. Warnock replied hesitantly, clearing his throat each time before he spoke, making Lorimer wonder if he had a problem. Had smoke inhalation caused permanent damage of a different kind? There was a plastic beaker of water on the table for the man who took frequent sips. It would need replenishing at some point, but perhaps that could be used as a lever to make him talk, if need be?

  ‘Maxwell Warnock.’ He hesitated, shuffling the papers into a different order. ‘Sometimes known as Símon Farkas.’ He looked up at the man opposite. ‘Simon, the Wolf,’ he added. ‘The name you took in Streda nad Bodrogom. The Slovakian authorities have identified you.’ Then, picking up a sheaf of light blue airmail letters, he waved them in the air. Warnock tried to disguise his surprise, his facial expression bland, but Lorimer saw the beat of the pulse in his throat.

  ‘We have read all of your correspondence to Dorothy,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Their contents appear to be a matter for a separate charge.’ He watched as Warnock looked up suddenly, a defiant cast to his mouth. ‘Grooming a victim for a nefarious reason can be a criminal offence,’ he told him. ‘But we can come back to that. What I would like you to tell me is why you wanted to target Peter Guilford himself? After all, he was your business partner, wasn’t he? You set up this trafficking operation years ago after you found that Dorothy had married Guilford, a man with as few scruples as yourself. A very useful man to have with that fleet of vehicles to hand whenever you wanted transport in a hurry. And someone that was only too keen to put capital behind what he saw as a money-making scheme. Like you, he didn’t care too much about the lives you were both ruining.’

  Warnock said nothing but the insolent shrug as he reached out yet again for water made Lorimer see how indifferent this man was about taking the life of another person. Had it been more than the fire that had inured him to this? Had his military experiences made him feel that killing was nothing particularly significant?

  ‘Guilford isn’t dead,’ Lorimer said, looking at Warnock steadily. ‘Your shot didn’t kill him.’

  ‘That wasn’t me, that was Raynor. Stupid fool had his chance and blew it. Twice,’ he spat disgustedly.

  ‘That why you had to get rid of him? Burn him in that derelict farmhouse? Raynor, the man who saved your life?’

  ‘That debt was paid long since,’ Warnock said quietly, avoiding Lorimer’s stare once more.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Guilford, you know,’ Lorimer said. This was true, of course, but nobody had been able to see let alone speak to the severely injured man since the barrage of bullets had left three other men dead at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ the man sneered. ‘That he was the big shot? That I was just the one who did his bidding? Did he tell you that?’

  It was Lorimer’s turn to remain silent but a slight raise of his eyebrows made Warnock leap to the wrong conclusion.

  ‘It wasn’t Guilford pulling the strings,’ he spat. ‘I came up with the idea in the first place.’ He thumped his chest with a closed fist. ‘Me, yes, me! I might look like this but I can still think and plan and make people do whatever I want!’

  ‘The evidence we have gathered pretty much substantiates that,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘The Slovakian authorities have given us plenty to back this up. However . . . ’ he paused and sat back, arms folded, index finger tapping his lips as though he were considering a new fact, ‘there is also the matter of planning to take the life of your uncle, Peter Guilford, in order to inherit your aunt’s estate, not to mention the properties back in Slovakia.’ He made a pretence of consulting the notes in front of him. ‘Little Bodrogom, is that what you call it?’

  Warnock’s jaw moved slightly so that Lorimer guessed he was gr
itting his teeth, a sign of annoyance or frustration. But there was no reply to his question.

  ‘Sorry to be the one to tell you, but a murderer cannot inherit the estate of his victim under either British or Slovakian law,’ he said.

  ‘My mother will get it . . . ’ Warnock told him, chin lifted in defiance.

  ‘No, she won’t.’ Lorimer shook his head. ‘Your mother is presently in custody awaiting trial for her part in your nasty little plan. Do you want me to tell you how we knew where to find you?’ he asked, leaning forward and fixing the man with his blue glare.

  ‘She didn’t!’ Warnock yelled. ‘She wouldn’t!’ But doubt was clearly etched across these bland features now.

  ‘How do you think I came across you in that attic?’ Lorimer taunted him.

  ‘She wouldn’t betray me!’ Warnock cried, thumping both fists on the table. But then his shoulders slumped and he began to sob, loud heaving sobs that were more like those of a wounded animal than a human in distress.

  ‘They all made me like this,’ he whimpered. ‘All of them . . . bloody, bloody women . . . ’

  There was more in this vein as Max Warnock recounted the horror of the fire in which he had been disfigured for life and left impotent, his weakness building up such a well of bitterness that it had spilled out as revenge against the gypsies of Streda nad Bodrogom and the Ferenc girl in particular. There was satisfaction in having caught Warnock, whose plans now lay in disarray in this small Glasgow room. Yet Lorimer knew a fleeting sense of pity for this man.

  Warnock’s admission about setting up his henchmen to attack the ambulance taking Guilford to Low Moss was the only moment when the man’s defiance returned.

  ‘I never handled any of the guns, though, your forensics can’t pin that on me!’ he’d claimed. His was the mind behind it all, however, and that was something Lorimer would try to prove.

  ‘Was that why you needed to dispatch Raynor and Gideon Patterson?’

  ‘Who? Oh, was that the driver’s name?’ Warnock answered carelessly.

  ‘Gideon Patterson was identified as the driver of a BMW registered in Michael Raynor’s name,’ Lorimer replied. ‘A vehicle you were seen to drive after setting fire to a deserted farmhouse near the village of Fintry. There are witnesses who can testify that it was you.’

  Warnock crossed his arms and tossed his head back in a sudden laugh.

  ‘Don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘You’re making this all up.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t pin that one on me either,’ he crowed.

  Lorimer did not reply but merely gave a slight nod to the uniformed officer standing at the door.

  There was complete silence as he sat holding Warnock in his gaze. The man flicked his eyes across to the door as it opened again. Then Warnock rose to his feet, knocking over his chair with a clatter.

  ‘Nooo!’ The cry was ripped from him as the two women stood in the open doorway.

  ‘It’s okay, you can go now, but thank you both for being here,’ Lorimer told Molly and Juliana, the latter cowering beside the policewoman as she stared into the room to see Max Warnock’s face once again.

  ‘Thought you’d killed them both, didn’t you?’ Lorimer mused, once the officer had placed his hands on Warnock’s shoulders, forcing him to sit down again.

  That was when Warnock began to yell and beat the table with his fists, the blood-curdling screams of a madman torn from his damaged throat.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Kirsty stood up and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘Congratulations, Detective Sergeant Wilson,’ the senior officer said, giving her a smile that was quite at odds with the grilling she had undergone over the previous hour.

  Jim Geary was waiting in the corridor outside.

  ‘Well? What do I call you? Wilson or Kirsty?’

  ‘I did it, Jim!’ Kirsty told him gleefully. ‘Or should I still call you sir?’

  ‘Well done, lass. I knew you would.’ He clapped Kirsty on the back. ‘And one day I’ll be calling you ma’am. Just you wait and see.’

  There were celebrations in the form of fizzy drinks and cream cakes bought in specially from Greggs bakery in the CID muster room. Kirsty gazed around at her colleagues, savouring the moment of her triumph. Her dad would be delighted, of course. Alastair Wilson had made it to detective inspector not long before his retirement and had faith that his only child would emulate that rank at least. She could imagine his grin already and her mum’s ‘Well done, Kirsty!’

  But first it was James she wanted to tell and there were still hours to go before she could speak to him face to face.

  Kirsty slipped away from the impromptu party as the other officers went back to their work, her phone in hand. She would text them, she decided, let them all know that she had gained her sergeant’s rank. Then it was a matter of talking to James, telling him that she had made that all-important decision at last.

  Solly watched, entranced, as the baby slithered into the hands of the waiting midwife, Rosie’s final scream of pain dying away.

  Behind his mask he mouthed the words ‘I love you’, gazing into his wife’s eyes as she struggled to sit up, see the baby for herself.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ the midwife proclaimed. Then, as if on cue, the tiny cries of the newborn infant began to fill the room and Solomon Brightman burst into tears of gladness.

  Afterwards, when Rosie had been made more comfortable, the professor of psychology sat beside her, cradling their little son in his arms.

  It was as if a magic bubble contained them all at that moment, some unseen membrane encapsulating the precious trinity of father, mother and child, the little one gazing with dark eyes into his face.

  ‘Benjamin,’ he whispered. ‘Our little Ben. Welcome to the world.’ Then a tiny finger curled around his finger and Solly began to laugh and cry at once, the sound of pure joy as love joined all three of them together.

  It was the sort of day when traffic had impeded her at every set of lights but now Kirsty was parked outside their flat in Barrington Drive and climbing the steps to their front door. Her key was hardly in the lock when the door opened and she was suddenly in his arms.

  ‘Well done, my lass!’ James spoke into her hair. ‘Never doubted for a moment that you would get it,’ he murmured. He hugged her long and hard then let her go, looking at her wistfully. ‘I suppose his means that all our plans to move away are over and done with?’ he asked. ‘You’ll want to stay here and pursue your career with Police Scotland, I guess? That’s all right. I’ll find another job somewhere nearer to Glasgow.’

  Kirsty swallowed hard. Such love this man had for her that he was prepared to sacrifice his own burgeoning career! And it was his love that had helped her to make the decision at last.

  ‘No,’ she said, clutching his arm. ‘That’s not what I’ve decided at all, James. I want to come to Chicago with you, start a new life there together. But only on one condition.’

  James shook his head, eyes wide with astonished delight. ‘Anything!’ he declared, swallowing hard.

  ‘We get married here in Scotland first,’ she said firmly. ‘Mum would never forgive us otherwise.’

  Maggie Lorimer was waiting for the sound of his car, something she had been doing for all of their married life. Perhaps she would not always be at home first, she mused. Once things began to take on a life of their own she would need to travel around the country, promoting her debut, the agent had warned her.

  She sat in the garden, face tilted up to the sunshine. It was midsummer now and soon school would be over for another session and they would be free to go to their beloved cottage in Mull. Chancer brushed against her bare leg, his soft fur making her fingers reach down to caress the cat’s head. He reared up on stiff legs and landed on her lap then began to move slowly around, settling himself down to sleep.

  Maggie closed her eyes. The Guilford case was over, the Woman Who Killed Herself headline news for a day, soon overtaken by columns devoted to the trafficking scheme,
lurid pictures of women and girls forced into unspeakable situations, the perpetrators all imprisoned. Life was full of changes, she mused. There they were, Rosie and Solly with two lovely children; Abby and baby Ben, the Lorimers’ little godson. Kirsty and James were full of wedding plans, Betty Wilson no doubt putting her culinary skills into baking her finest wedding cake ever. Bill had been surprised at the news that Kirsty was leaving the police force but Maggie Lorimer had simply smiled and nodded when she had been told. Finding the love of your life was the most important thing of all and holding onto it was a greater joy than any career could offer.

  She heard the car door slam then the front door opening. Chancer slumbered on in her lap and she stroked his fur as she waited for her husband to come out into the garden. Perhaps her own new venture would bring changes, give her a different perspective? There was to be a nationwide book tour next year, the publisher had promised when they had spoken earlier today, their marketing department welcoming Margaret Lorimer into their ranks of children’s authors.

  She looked up as he approached then turned her face up to receive his kiss.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ he murmured, caressing her hair before standing up again. ‘Want something to drink?’

  ‘Mm,’ Maggie replied. ‘There’s some champagne chilling in the fridge. That would do nicely.’

  ‘Champagne?’ His expression made Maggie laugh out loud as she caught hold of his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many people to thank for helping me with writing this, the fifteenth in the Lorimer series. All of the team at Little, Brown deserve big hugs for their marvellous support (and flowers!) particularly Cath, Lucy, Thalia and Steph but most of all my dear David Shelley who has been with me almost from the beginning. I have the proud boast to be his longest standing author, at least for now. Among so many others, my editor, Lucy Dauman, and Jenny Brown, my dear friend and agent, gave me support and encouragement when things were tough and illness made it look at one stage that I might never finish this book on time. Bless you both.

 

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