The Riverman Read online

  ALSO BY ALEX GRAY

  Never Somewhere Else

  A Small Weeping

  Shadows of Sounds

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-13354-3

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Alex Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  This novel is dedicated to George Parsonage,

  Glasgow Humane Society Officer, to the memory

  of his father, Ben, and all rivermen before them.

  Contents

  Also By Alex Gray

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The Riverman

  PART ONE: February

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART TWO: April

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Pitch Black

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Buried

  Fear

  The Night Ferry

  PROLOGUE

  April

  THE RIVERMAN

  The riverman knew all about the Clyde. Its tides and currents were part of his heritage. His father and others before him had launched countless small craft from the banks of the river in response to a cry for help. Nowadays that cry came in the form of a klaxon that could waken him from sleep, the mobile phone ringing with information about where and when. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’d pulled someone from the icy waters with only a hasty oilskin over his pyjamas.

  This morning, at least, he’d been up and doing when the call came. The body was over by Finnieston, past the weir, so he’d had to drive over the river towing a boat behind him on the trailer. He was always ready. That was what this job was all about: prompt and speedy response in the hope that some poor sod’s life could be saved. And he’d saved hundreds over the years, desperate people who were trying to make up their mind to jump off one of the many bridges that spanned the Clyde or those who had made that leap and been saved before the waters filled their lungs.

  George Parsonage had been brought up to respect his river. Once it had been the artery of a great beating heart, traffic thronging its banks, masts thick as brushwood. The tobacco trade with Virginia had made Glasgow flourish all right, with the preaching of commerce and the praising of a New World that was ripe for plucking. The names of some city streets still recalled those far-off days. Even in his own memory, the Clyde had been a byword for ships. As a wee boy, George had been taken to the launch of some of the finer products of Glasgow’s shipbuilding industry. But even then the river’s grandeur was fading. He’d listened to stories about the grey hulks that grew like monsters from the deep, sliding along the water, destined for battle, and about the cruise liners sporting red funnels that were cheered off their slipways, folk bursting with pride to be part of this city with its great river.

  The romance and nostalgia had persisted for decades after the demise of shipbuilding and cross-river ferries. Books written about the Clyde’s heyday still found readers hankering after a time that was long past. The Glasgow Garden Festival in the eighties had prompted some to stage a revival along the river and more recently there had been a flurry of activity as the cranes returned to erect luxury flats and offices on either side of its banks. Still, there was little regular traffic upon its sluggish dark waters: a few oarsmen, a private passenger cruiser and the occasional police launch. Few saw what the river was churning up on a daily basis.

  As he pushed the oars against the brown water, the riverman sent up a silent prayer for guidance. He’d seen many victims of despair and violence, and constantly reminded himself that each one was a person like himself with hopes, dreams and duties in different measure. If he could help, he would. That was what the Glasgow Humane Society existed for, after all. The sound of morning traffic roared above him as he made his way downstream. The speed of response was tempered by a need to row slowly and carefully once the body was near. Even the smallest of eddies could tip the body, filling the air pocket with water and sending it down and down to the bottom of the river. So, as George Parsonage approached the spot where the body floated, his oars dipped as lightly as seabirds’ wings, his eyes fixed on the shape that seemed no more than a dirty smudge against the embankment.

  The riverman could hear voices above but his eyes never left the half-submerged body as the boat crept nearer and nearer. At last he let the boat drift, oars resting on the rowlocks as he finally drew alongside the river’s latest victim. George stood up slowly and bent over, letting the gunwales of the boat dip towards the water. Resting one foot on the edge, he hauled the body by its shoulders and in one clean movement brought it in. Huge ripples eddied away from the side as the boat rocked upright, its cargo safely aboard.

  The victim was a middle-aged man. He’d clearly been in the water for some hours so there was no question of trying to revive him. The riverman turned the head this way and that, but there was no sign of a bullet hole or any wound that might indicate a sudden, violent death. George touched the sodden coat lightly. Its original camel colour was smeared and streaked with the river’s detritus, the velvet collar an oily black. Whoever he had been, his clothes showed signs of wealth. The pale face shone wet against the pearly pink light of morning. For an instant George had the impression that the man would sit up and grasp his hand, expressing his thanks for taking him out of the water, as so many had done before him. But today no words would be spoken. There would be only a silent communion between the two men, one dead and one living, before other hands came to examine the corpse.

  George grasped the oars and pulled away from the embankment. Only then did he glance upwards, nodding briefly as he identified the men whose voices had sounded across the water. DCI Lorimer caught his eye and nodded back. Up above the banking a couple of uniformed officers stood looking down. Even as he began rowing away from the shore, the riverman noticed a smaller figure join the others. Dr Rosie Fergusson had arrived.<
br />
  ‘Meet you at the Finnieston steps, George,’ Lorimer called out.

  The riverman nodded briefly, pulling hard on the oars, taking his charge on its final journey down the Clyde.

  PART ONE

  February

  CHAPTER 1

  Duncan Forbes knew what he had to do.

  He pulled the camel coat onto its hanger as he did every winter morning, felt the brown velvet collar under his fingers, then hung it over the old wooden coat stand. Like so much in this room the coat stand seemed to have been there for ever, its worn varnish a dull yellow against the dark wood-panelled walls. The faint scent of furniture polish lingered from the earlier ministrations of the cleaning staff, a whiff of lemon sharpening the air.

  Duncan allowed a small sigh to emanate from his chest. He frowned. As one of the older partners of Forbes Macgregor, Duncan was not known for indulging in sentimentality, yet, as he stood quietly facing the corner of the room, he felt as though all his senses were heightened. For the first time he wondered how many more days he would be able to come here and hang up his coat in its customary place. Somehow that small action mattered more than all the consequences to come. He’d already faced the idea of losing one half of the house and the cottage in Argyllshire. Night after night he’d forced himself to picture the aftermath of the firm’s collapse, sweat beading his forehead as he lay on his back, images of the future dancing mad patterns on the ceiling. He’d come to terms with all of that, though what Liz would make of it God alone knew.

  It was always something that happened to other people, other firms, those modern ones that sprang up like weeds only to be pulled out and chucked on the compost heap of progress, not an old, respected establishment like Forbes Macgregor. And this cover-up must have been going on for years, maybe even before the firm had become one of the Big Six …

  Duncan looked around the room that had been his father’s office and his father’s before him. A family firm of accountants, established nearly a century ago, was a matter of some pride, especially when it was now a player on the international stage. He’d never resisted the gentle push towards continuing in the family tradition. On the contrary, he’d welcomed the chance to step into a job with such a secure future. His mouth twisted at the thought. Security. Nothing would be secure once he’d set things in motion. His eyes fell upon the frame that held his practising certificate. When he’d first hooked it on to its place on the wall, Duncan had looked upon it as an achievement; the guarantee of a substantial career. Now he saw it as only a piece of paper caught behind a fragile sheet of glass.

  He turned slowly, surveying the place where he’d spent the last thirty years, then walked across and sat down heavily in the captain’s chair behind the leather-topped desk. Photographs of the children stood in silver frames: Janey on the beach in Arromanches, Philip standing solemnly with his first violin after a school concert, their graduation pictures, Janey with the baby, Philip grinning from under a bush hat somewhere in Kenya.

  Philip. Duncan’s mouth straightened in a hard line as he thought of his only son. There would be no job in the firm for him after all. Would he mind? Suddenly Duncan realized he had no earthly idea how his son would respond. When had he last talked with him about such matters anyway? Had he ever? Or was it something they’d all taken for granted?

  For a moment Duncan Forbes was smitten by a strange hollow sensation.

  What he was about to do would affect so many lives, so many careers, yet all he could think about was how much he would miss the daily routine of coming into this room with all its memories.

  CHAPTER 2

  The woman smiled lazily as she stretched her arms above her head. That extra half-hour in bed made all the difference at this time of year. Duncan had slipped away earlier than usual, but that was all right. She’d learned a long time ago that his absences meant he had more work and that more work gave her the kind of freedom afforded to few women these days. The years of jumping out of bed in response to the alarm clock’s strident ring and all those city-bound trains with their crushed cargo of heaving bodies were long behind her. Thank God. Or maybe that should be thank Duncan, a little voice reminded Liz Forbes. He was the one who’d enabled her to stop working when the children were born, after all. How many years ago? She’d lost count now.

  From time to time there had been a flicker of discontent. Janey had once called her a dinosaur, complaining that other girls’ mummies had careers as lawyers and doctors. They managed to raise families and do all the things that Liz did, her daughter had complained, so why didn’t she go out to work? There was a time when Liz had missed the camaraderie of office life with all its gossip and nights out, especially when the babies had been fractious and sleepless nights had seemed endless. Hugging her dressing gown around her exhausted body, she’d watched the smartly dressed girls pass her window each morning on their way to the railway station. Then she’d yearned for the familiar routine of making up her face and choosing which outfit she should wear. But those days had passed. Besides, Liz loved her house, her garden and her daily habits.

  Now Liz couldn’t imagine how she’d fit even a part-time job into her busy day. For a start there were the demands of her charity work. She sat on various committees as well as organizing an annual fundraising ball. Once a month, from May until September, she and Duncan opened their garden to the public, again to raise funds. It was the focal point of the community for the Christmas carol service, when they strung thousands of fairy lights from the trees and provided mulled wine and Christmas pies for the locals. That counted for something, surely? People were always telling her how much they loved it.

  Most of Liz’s own friends were working women: some through the necessity of making ends meet post-marriage, others because it was simply what they did. She couldn’t imagine Sally not being a primary headmistress, for instance. It was something that defined her oldest friend, just as being at home and tending to her large garden was the image her friends had of Liz Forbes. It was hard work and kept her slim and fit, but there were times like now when she could snuggle under the duvet, watch the grey streak of cloud shift above the brightness on the horizon and listen to the blackbird in the pine trees.

  The sound of the doorbell signalled the arrival of the morning’s post and Liz rolled out of her warm cocoon, toes wriggling in anticipation of the sheepskin rug that lay on her side of the bed. A second ring made Liz scurry through the hallway, buttoning her dressing gown. Quick fingers tugged the snarls out of her hair as she glanced at the grandmother clock. Was it that time already?

  ‘Thanks, John.’ She flashed a smile at the postman as he handed her the day’s mail. As usual there were several A4-sized envelopes that were too large for their antique letterbox. A flick through the bundle revealed that the bulk was for Duncan, with two bills and a letter for Liz plus a postcard from Kenya addressed to them both.

  Dear All,

  Having a great time here. Saw the most amazing herd of elephant yesterday. Our ranger, Leonard, took us pretty close. Weather still hot but the nights can be surprisingly chilly. Met a group of Aussies who are off to Scotland next month. May meet up with them when I’m back. Only three more months to go. Can’t believe how the time’s passed! Hope you’re both well.

  Love, Philip

  Liz smiled. It had been her idea for Philip to take a year out after university. ‘He’ll be in a nine-to-five routine for the rest of his life,’ she’d argued when Duncan had objected. ‘Give the boy some space before he settles down. He’s worked hard enough for his degree, after all.’ And that was true enough. Philip had achieved an upper second after a year when he’d sacrificed his social life on the altar of constant study. Duncan had grudgingly acknowledged this, adding that his studies weren’t over yet. There would be the Chartered Accountancy exams for a couple of years at least, once he’d joined the firm.

  She placed the card on the glass shelf above the radiator in the hall, where Duncan would be sure to see it on his retu
rn home, then took the rest of the day’s mail into the kitchen. As Liz waited for the kettle to boil she sorted out her husband’s post and put her own into a smaller pile. The two bills were from Marks & Spencer and Frasers, she noticed, turning them over. The letter addressed to Mrs D. Forbes was typewritten on a long blue Basildon Bond envelope. She glanced at the reverse, hoping to see a self-addressed label but there was none. It would be something to do with one of the charities, Liz decided, reaching out for the paper knife she kept on top of the bread bin. But it wasn’t.

  The two sheets of paper typed in single spacing danced before her eyes. Dear Mrs Forbes, the letter began. That was right. She was Liz Forbes, wife of the highly respected Duncan Forbes, CA, partner of Forbes Macgregor. But the rest of it? No. The rest of the letter was all wrong. It had to be. And the signature? Well, there wasn’t one, just a typed line: from a friend.

  Liz slumped against the kitchen chair, hands trembling. Her first instinct was to phone Duncan and tell him of this horrible thing that was happening to her. A poison-pen letter, wasn’t that what they called them? She bit her lip. What if it was true? How would Duncan respond to her calling the office? Liz took up the letter again and read its contents. It was about Duncan, the writer explained. It was from a sense of duty that the letter was being written to Mrs Forbes, he went on. He? Liz thought suddenly. Or she? Somehow it sounded like a man: the wording was formal, educated. There was nothing spiteful in the language, no sneering at Duncan for what he was supposed to have done, the tone almost apologetic, as if the writer had had no alternative but to reveal the horror that was causing Liz’s mouth to dry up.

  If there had been even one word of malice she would have torn the letter to shreds and binned it, she knew. But the unheard voice was so reasonable, so matter-of-fact, that Liz continued to read the closely spaced lines until the phrases were indelibly fixed in her brain.

  Her husband was having an affair, she read. Had been having an affair for several years, if the letter was to be believed. With someone in the office.