Five Ways to Kill a Man Read online

  As he glanced behind him, taking in the sweep of the esplanade and the widening waters of the Clyde, another memory came back to him. Maggie’s parents had been there with them as they’d stood at the railings all those years ago among crowds watching as the flotilla of tall ships had left the harbour, folk waving and cheering as each ship had sailed past them. Lorimer gave a sigh. Next year there would only be Maggie and himself coming back down here to see the Tall Ships, unless they were accompanying a frail old lady in a wheelchair. He blinked, then the image of those crowds and that summer evening was gone. All that he saw was an expanse of choppy water, the hills on the other side partially obscured by a low cloud.

  Pressing the buzzer next to the name Jackson, Lorimer turned his thoughts to the young woman who had lost her parents in that blaze. She’d not be able to stand side by side with them watching as the ships left harbour next year, would she? He felt a wave of pity mingled with rage at whoever had committed this senseless act, his resolve to find that person hardening as he heard a female voice utter a quiet hello over the intercom.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he replied, shifting from one foot to the other as he uttered the words. He still wasn’t used to this new title and somehow it didn’t come easily from his lips.

  In a matter of minutes Lorimer was standing by a grey-painted door, listening to the rattle of a security chain being drawn back. He frowned. Serena Jackson was expecting his visit, so what was this young woman afraid of? Or was she habitually cautious? Hugh Tannock had told him how hard the daughter had taken her parents’ deaths. Was she a nervy type by nature, perhaps? His first impression of the woman dispelled that notion the moment he saw her.

  Lorimer found himself staring into a pair of amber-coloured eyes belonging to a tall, slender female whose light blonde hair was swept into a ponytail. She had the sort of face that one might find on the pages of some glossy magazine, he thought, a perfect face: flawless, luminescent skin with high cheekbones and a wide mouth that was only lightly touched by something cosmetic. She was tall and carried herself like a model; there was no rounded back or slumping shoulders that might indicate an individual weighed down with the burdens of life.

  ‘Miss Jackson?’ he asked and she gave a slight nod in reply then stepped back, motioning that he should enter the flat. Lorimer muttered ‘Thanks’, as she closed the door, then followed Serena Jackson along a white hallway into a square room that should have looked on to the river. A quick glance showed that the linen blinds were closed, obscuring any sort of view, and he found himself oddly disappointed. Yet it didn’t seem as if the young woman had been unprepared for his visit or had just rolled out of bed. A quick glance showed him that the girl was fully dressed in soft beige slacks and a cream knitted sweater belted at the waist with a heavy dark brown leather belt; expensive clothes whose very simplicity showed their quality.

  The woman still had not uttered a word since his arrival and she stood regarding him silently, her face devoid of any expression that he could interpret. His first instinct was to wonder if the girl was still in shock, but then she waved a hand towards a honey-coloured sofa and walked out of the room again. Instead of taking the seat she’d offered, Lorimer followed her and found himself in a kitchen that looked as though it had been lifted straight out of a stand at the Modern Homes Exhibition, all chromes and dove greys with a plethora of gadgets parked at various electrical points upon gleaming worktops. It was immaculate and rather impersonal, he suddenly realised, like the room next door.

  ‘Oh!’ Serena Jackson spun round, her hand grasping a kettle jug as she heard Lorimer’s footfall.

  ‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you. May I?’ And taking the kettle out of her unresisting hand, he stepped over to the sink and began to fill the kettle with water. A glance in her direction showed him what he had begun to suspect. Her mouth was half-open in surprise, but the vacant expression gave an indication that it was not shyness that left the woman nothing to say but a mental vagueness. Again he recalled Tannock’s words about the youngest Jackson and that he had given Lorimer the impression that her part in the business seemed to have been more decorative than anything else.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ The question came as a surprise as it dawned upon him that these were the first words he’d heard her speak since his arrival. And even her voice had a limpid quality, soft and clear but with a politeness that spoke of good breeding rather than a genuine wish to please this new visitor from Strathclyde Police.

  ‘Coffee, please. Black, no sugar,’ he added. Lorimer watched as Serena Jackson went about the business of preparing a cafetière of coffee, spooning three generous measures of Taylor’s finest Arabica into the glass jug. He wasn’t going to be treated to coffee from one of the gadgets, then, he thought. Perhaps a policeman was somewhere further down the pecking order in this wealthy young woman’s life, he wondered, immediately ashamed of himself for such a thought. Wasn’t she making the coffee herself? Yet it was an activity that seemed to wholly engross her to the point where she appeared to be ignoring him. It was a bit odd, though, this lack of small talk and the Detective Superintendent found himself becoming disconcerted by her silence. It was far more usual for someone to prattle on through sheer nervousness during a visit from a senior police officer. And for the moment he couldn’t think of anything to say that would break the tension that he felt building up between them. Has the cat got your tongue? his mother-in-law was used to saying. Well, maybe just at this minute, he admitted and watched the graceful curve of the woman’s back and the way she lifted the kettle jug, her wrist so slim and frail. Was she usually so thin? Or had she suffered physically after the loss of both her parents? It was hardly a question he could ask her right now, was it?

  Once the coffee was made, Lorimer gave an encouraging smile and carried the tray back into the lounge. He laid it down on a glass-topped table and sat back, allowing the girl to pour coffee and hand it to him. He watched, fascinated as her long white hands gripped the handle of the coffee pot, the fingernails perfect ovals of pearly pink. Again he had the impression that he was seeing some otherworldly creature, not a flesh-and-blood woman whose parents had been left to die in that dreadful fire.

  ‘Now, Miss Jackson, I’m afraid I will be asking you quite a lot of questions relating to the death of your parents,’ he told her gently, leaning forward as if to ensure that she understood him. ‘Do you think you can cope with that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told him, meeting his blue gaze. ‘I can cope, Superintendent.’ She sat back, her expression both cool and impenetrable. Perhaps that deliberate silence had been a ploy calculated to compose herself or to control her emotions? Lorimer had seen so many different personalities in his professional life. But he had never come across anyone quite like Serena Jackson.

  Now she was looking at him over the rim of her coffee cup and he could swear that there was a flicker of intelligence expressed in these topaz-coloured eyes.

  ‘The family liaison officer has explained to you why I am taking over this case?’

  Serena Jackson set her coffee cup down carefully then looked straight at him.

  ‘It was an accident. That’s what Daniel and I believe. We don’t really see the need for you to come and talk to us all over again,’ she told him, her mouth closing in a firm line as if there was no more to be said on the subject.

  Lorimer cleared his throat and swallowed. This was going to be more difficult than he’d expected. But then, what had he expected? A woman ready and eager to discuss her parents’ murder? No.

  ‘There is some forensic evidence that suggests the fire was started deliberately, Miss Jackson. And we are now looking into the possibility that someone had broken into the house to use an accelerant. It wasn’t just the chip pan, you see.’

  ‘Acc . . .?’

  ‘Some sort of fluid - like petrol - that would instantly combust when set alight. Whoever did that knew perfectly well that the blaze would begin in minutes a
nd that anyone inside didn’t stand a chance of escaping.’ He heard his own words sounding brutal, but there was no easy way to explain the truth. Besides, she needed to understand why he was here.

  ‘It wasn’t an accident that someone spilled it, then?’ She was looking down at her hands now, clasping and unclasping them in a gesture that he recognised as anxiety. If Serena Jackson and her brother had been convincing themselves that this had been a tragic accident, then what he was telling her was like opening a horrible wound that had only just begun to heal.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘It seems not. That’s why I have to ask you questions about your late father and mother.’

  She looked up at him again then, as though she were unable to meet his eyes, she turned away with a sigh.

  ‘We have to know from those who were closest to them if there was any reason for their deaths,’ he continued, hoping that she was hearing what he said.

  ‘My parents were very ordinary people, you know,’ Serena began, her eyes fixed on something in the middle distance, making him wonder if she was reliving some memory of them. ‘She played golf every other day, went to the local art class every week. The sort of thing that loads of Kilmacolm ladies do. None of her friends ever said anything bad about her, as far as I know.’ She tailed off.

  ‘And you father?’ Lorimer’s interjection was dropped quietly into the ensuing silence, encouraging her to continue.

  ‘Just the same, I suppose. He worked at the office, took business trips, played golf. All the same stuff as everyone else’s father did around here. Well, I mean, up there.’ She made a face as she realised her mistake. ‘I suppose I’m still not used to being away from home.’

  ‘You moved here very recently then?’

  ‘Yes. I got the keys the week before . . .’ She tailed off again and this time Lorimer did not press her.

  It struck him as a trifle odd, though. Serena Jackson was an independent young woman in her mid-twenties and yet had only just left the parental home. Perhaps that explained why everything here looked so new and shiny; things were only just out of their boxes and with the advent of her parents’ deaths she would hardly have had the energy to personalise her own space. Taking a quick glance around confirmed his thoughts; there was not even a single photograph on display - nothing to remind her of her mum and dad, only such memories as she had locked up in her head.

  Something told Lorimer that he was not going to get anything else useful from the girl. She seemed to have faded into another silence that left him feeling like an outsider. And yet he couldn’t let himself leave it like that.

  ‘Are you intending to return to work?’ he asked.

  The rise of one shoulder signalled what? Indifference? Uncertainty?

  ‘You don’t mind living here on your own?’

  The eyes Serena turned upon him were at once large and vacant as if something had taken away her innermost spirit and Lorimer wondered if she were even taking in these simple questions.

  ‘Do you miss them?’ he asked softly, leaning forward so there could be no chance of her missing his words.

  For a moment she didn’t move, then he saw the slight nod of her head and the way she bit her lip as if to stop herself from weeping.

  ‘Would you excuse me?’ she asked and rose suddenly, crossing the room in a couple of strides and disappearing into the hall. He heard the hollow sound of a door closing and guessed she had gone to the bathroom rather than show any sign of grief in front of a stranger.

  Lorimer looked around the room, trying to see anything that would give him more of a clue about this young woman and the sort of life she was now living, but there seemed to be no personal things at all, not even a magazine in the metal rack beside the coffee table. But he did recognise something there. The turquoise cover of a square-shaped folder caught his attention. He bent down and picked it up, reading the familiar words on the front cover: Information for Bereaved Families and Friends Following Murder or Culpable Homicide. So, she had already been given this by Family Liaison. Why, then, was she insisting that it was an accident? A refusal to acknowledge something more dreadful, he supposed. He’d come across denial like that before, he thought, flicking open the folder until he came to the section headed Important Contacts. There, against the box for the name of the SIO was the name Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray. But it had been scored out with a single line and beneath it a different hand had written Mr William Lorimer. There was no change in the postal address or telephone number of the HQ at Greenock, though. Lorimer frowned for a moment. He was not being dignified by any title other than plain Mister. Then he shrugged. Maybe there simply wasn’t enough space under the original name.

  Hearing the sound of a toilet being flushed, Lorimer put the folder back where he had found it and stood up ready to take his leave.

  Serena Jackson didn’t seem surprised to see him standing waiting for her.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me this morning. And for the coffee,’ he added.

  She gave a sight nod and headed for the front door at the far end of the hall, opening it wide as if to ensure that he really was leaving. Then, before he could say goodbye, she caught his sleeve, making him turn to face her.

  ‘Do you like being a policeman?’ she asked, her tawny eyes wide, like that of a curious child.

  ‘Not always,’ he replied. ‘But it’s a good job most of the time.’ Then, as she let go of his coat sleeve, he smiled at her. ‘Take care,’ he told her, nodding as she stepped back into the sanctuary of her new home. Then the door closed and he heard again that rattle of metal against wood as she secured the safety chain.

  Once out in the open air, Lorimer drew a deep breath. That had been less than pleasant, but then what had he expected? Hopefully his visit to the older brother would produce a bit more in the way of information. All that he had found here was that the Jacksons’ daughter was a strange creature, one that, for all his experience, he simply couldn’t fathom. For a moment he felt a certain pity for the girl; she seemed incomplete despite her undeniable beauty. But wasn’t there something odd about such perfection? Then Lorimer caught himself wondering what she would look like if she had given him a smile. And for a moment he wished that she had.

  ‘I wish you’d told me you wanted to see Serena, Superintendent. I’d have made the effort to be there with her,’ Daniel Jackson told him.

  They were sitting in an airy room overlooking one of the city’s dear green places in a quiet corner of the West End. It was only a mile or so from the comprehensive school where Maggie taught but it might have been in a completely different world. That was one thing his friend Solly Brightman was fond of telling him: how Glasgow was full of contrasts, those who had and those who had not rubbing shoulders with apparent ease.

  Daniel Jackson’s home was one of the most gracious houses that Lorimer had ever visited, though he had been inside all sorts of Glasgow properties during his career. On either side of the bay windows were twin pillars made of tawny marble, half hidden by thin, gauzy draperies drawn beside them. The high ceilings still had all of their original cornicing, a feature that someone had picked out in a pale shade of gold in the elegant sitting room. Some nineteenth-century merchant with pots of money at his disposal, Lorimer thought as he took in the pleasing proportions of this room. And now another wealthy young man had taken over the care of the house, lavishing his own attention upon it. It was the sort of period home that would have been ruined by anyone trying to impose a modern style upon it and the policeman’s artistic sensibilities were gratified by seeing that so many of the furnishings were in keeping with the age of the house. No doubt Daniel Jackson would have the same up-to-date quality of kitchen as his sister had in her new-build flat by the river, but here, in this sitting room, there was every sign that the owner was in sympathy with his surroundings. Though right at this moment he seemed distinctly out if sympathy with the tall policeman sitting opposite.

  ‘It’s only usual to have a family
member present when interviewing a minor,’ Lorimer told him, meeting the young man’s gaze. Daniel Jackson gave a sigh and turned away as if to gather his thoughts. Then he looked back at Lorimer, his brown eyes soft with a sadness that made the policeman immediately warm to the man.

  ‘I’m a bit protective of my little sister, Superintendent. She’s not like other young women you may have met. Don’t get me wrong,’ he waved his hand as though to banish any wrongheaded ideas, ‘she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself and all that. It’s just . . .’ He tailed off, as though seeking the correct words. ‘Serena’s always needed a bit more care than me. She had a hard time at school till they found she was dyslexic. And by that time she’d missed such a lot. Anyway, she’s been really badly affected by all of this and one can only admire her for staying put in her own place.’

  ‘What was her alternative?’ Lorimer asked. After all, hadn’t the family home been practically razed to the ground?

  ‘Well, moving in with me, of course. It’s plenty big enough for both of us. In fact, I keep one of the bedrooms just for Serena.’