Five Ways to Kill a Man Read online

  CHAPTER 7

  The pain shot through the top of his skull, making the DCI groan aloud. Opening his eyes, Colin Ray felt the daylight batter against his brain and he rolled over before the nausea took control.

  Minutes later Ray was leaning over, clutching the cistern for support, the contents of his stomach swirling away in the toilet pan. Muttering an oath under his fetid breath, the DCI staggered to the sink, cupping cold water over his face. He let the droplets course down his body, unheeding of the damp patch forming at his waistline.

  ‘God love us,’ he whispered to the reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing the haggard expression on his face. Then his thoughts turned to his wife: Grace would hate seeing him like this. For a moment he hesitated. Would he just call in sick, tell DI Rhoda Martin to take his calls? They all knew he wanted to spend time up at St Vincent’s. Ray bit his lip, torn between his duty as a policeman and a husband. Christ! Why was he even considering it? There was no way K Division would see him today. He’d take a long shower, slather on plenty of aftershave and find some fresh clothes to wear. Then it was back to the hospice.

  The bathroom still smelled of fresh vomit despite his attempts to mask it. He closed the door behind him, hoping the window left slightly ajar would be enough to take away the stink before he returned. Passing the lounge on his way back to the bedroom, Colin Ray hesitated. The place was a shambles: beer bottles were standing on the side table and the foil containers from last night’s curry were poking out of the white polythene bag next to his armchair. But it wasn’t just that: the whole room looked as if it hadn’t been touched for weeks. Well, it bloody well hadn’t been. Without Grace to do the needful, things had been completely neglected, but that was hardly his fault, was it? a little voice whined in his head. He’d either been up at the bloody hospital (and now the hospice) or trying to do his job as a senior police officer. Who could blame him if the place had become a tip? But despite this attempt at justification, Colin Ray felt a sense of guilt. He was letting Grace down. Bugger it! He’d take more time off and tidy the place up properly, or get in a cleaner. Just till . . .

  The man stepped into the lounge then, his hand on the back of Grace’s favourite armchair. There was no until, was there? She wasn’t going to be coming back. Ever. This was how things were going to be from now on, just him on his own trying to cope with a job that threatened to overwhelm him and the day-to-day caring for a home that had always been Grace’s part of the ship.

  Colin Ray felt his lip tremble as the tears filled his eyes. And he let them fall, clasping the back of that chair, sobbing for the woman who would never sit there again.

  St Vincent’s Hospice was an unassuming single-storey building overlooking farmland, the hills of West Renfrewshire a hazy outline beyond. Ray parked the car in his usual spot, facing the drive so he could make a hasty exit. He was always in a hurry, he thought, cursing himself for the time he’d failed to spend up here. Drawing in a deep breath, Ray smelled something fresh and earthy: the air was soft with the threat of rain to come above the empty flowerbeds waiting for a spring that the patients would never see. Spring was Grace’s favourite season; she loved lambing time and always waxed lyrical about the hedges greening and how pretty all these cherry blossoms were, lining their street. He could almost hear her voice, her old voice, not that hoarse croak he hated so much. People had told him that was something that lingered afterwards - the sound of their voices in your brain. Ray hesitated outside the main entrance. He could slip away now, drive back down the road. He had plenty on his plate with this new case and nobody would blame him for doing his job, would they?

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and pasted a smile on his face for Linda, the nice girl at reception. She smiled back, eyes full of a sort of understanding that he hated. That unspoken pity always made him cringe, but once past Linda’s desk he was fine. There were always patients in the dayroom or the corridor leading to Grace’s own room, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in his grief. Seeing those others calmly waiting their turn for death to take them made things seem much more normal somehow, so that by the time he slipped into his wife’s room the bitter lines around Colin Ray’s mouth had vanished.

  Grace was asleep, head to one side. He skirted carefully around the oxygen cylinder by her bedside, squeezing himself into his customary place by the window. Sitting back in the comfortable chair, he relaxed for the first time that day. Waiting for her to wake up was one of the best things Ray could do right now; his would be the face she saw when her tired eyes opened at last. It gave him time to rehearse all the things he wanted to tell her, leaving out everything to do with work. It was the little everyday stuff she liked to hear: what the neighbours were doing, how the garden was looking, what he’d eaten for his dinner last night . . . Ray pictured the untidy tip at home and began to fashion a different place altogether in his imagination, one that was neat and clean with home-cooked meals that he could describe with pretend relish. His lies maybe fooled her, he didn’t know, but she would smile at him anyway, that look of fondness in her eyes telling him that it didn’t really matter. He was there, holding her hand and that was all she needed.

  Tales of malice and burned bodies could be forgotten for a while at least.

  CHAPTER 8

  Maggie’s face lit up as she looked out of the kitchen window. The first of her miniature daffodils! Now she could almost believe that winter was over and begin to anticipate the warming days to come. A couple of weeks and the garden would be a riot of colour: grape hyacinths spreading their blue amongst the wilderness that was supposed to be her rose bed, primulas and daffies springing up all over the place. As yet the trees were leafless but other signs that the long winter months were drawing to a close could be seen in the activity of the small birds that came into their garden. Maggie watched as a greenfinch chased a smaller, brightly coloured bird from their thistle seed-feeder. It had been a particularly good year for goldfinches, she knew, remembering the results of the RSPB’s annual birdwatch. Despite their cat, Chancer, pacing his territory, the birds seemed to thrive here. Maybe it was the wildness of their overgrown place; there was never enough time to cut stuff back, though she was always resolving to tackle all the jobs out there that needed doing.

  Turning back into the kitchen, Maggie Lorimer looked at the bags of groceries lying on the work surface, ready to be unpacked. She might well be eating alone tonight, she thought ruefully, if her husband’s telephone call meant anything.

  ‘A pot of soup,’ she told herself briskly, already thinking what ingredients she would use. ‘That’ll be fine no matter what time he comes home.’ Then, smiling to herself, Maggie began to pack away the groceries, leaving the vegetables she needed to one side.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late,’ Lorimer called out into the darkened hallway. Shuffling off his coat, he looked upstairs for a light from their bedroom but that too was in darkness.

  ‘Mags?’

  ‘In here,’ a sleepy voice replied.

  He found her curled up in the recliner, a pile of jotters discarded on the floor.

  ‘Hey,’ Lorimer hunkered down by Maggie’s side, ‘what’s all this? Falling asleep on the job?’ he teased.

  ‘Mm . . . Sixth year creative writing folios. Must’ve dropped off.’

  ‘Riveting stuff then,’ he remarked, giving the jotters a cursory glance.

  ‘Less of the sarcasm, pal.’ Maggie’s mouth curved into a smile in the darkness. ‘Some of them are not bad at all.’

  ‘Just a wee tad soporific,’ he suggested, the laugh in his voice making her try to pull herself into a sitting position.

  ‘That word always reminds me of Peter Rabbit,’ Maggie mumbled, rubbing her eyes. ‘You know, when the Flopsy Bunnies all fell asleep . . . soporific effect of too many lettuces . . .’

  ‘Come on, bed for you.’ Lorimer leaned over, one arm around Maggie’s shoulders as she gave an enormous yawn.

  As they shuffled upstairs, Maggie lifted
her head from his shoulder, stopping suddenly. ‘Oh, how did today go?’ She paused, waiting for a reply that was not immediately forthcoming. ‘Grim, was it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lorimer replied shortly, nudging her up towards the top of the stairs. ‘Come on, you’re bushed.’

  Maggie Lorimer nodded to herself. Okay, if he didn’t want to discuss it, then that was fine with her. She’d learned a long time ago to let her husband begin any conversation about his work, whether it was about a case of serious crime or the day-to-day annoyances of administration. But this was a bit different. Acting Detective Superintendent William Lorimer had been appointed to another division to review a case that was going nowhere, the type of job that no self-respecting senior officer relished one little bit. There was always a degree of scepticism when a review took place and Lorimer knew well that it was the last thing he’d want on his own turf.

  Listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom, Lorimer curled under the duvet. It had been grim down in K Division. Failte Gu Grianaig the sign had proclaimed as he’d entered the town. Welcome to Greenock. But his welcome, if it could be called that, had been pretty frosty. But that was to be expected. Nobody enjoyed being told that their own DCI was incompetent, especially under the circumstances. Colin Ray had messed up, that was obvious, but his wife had been dying of cancer! What more did they want from the guy? Lorimer’s sympathies had been for his fellow officer who had made zero progress in the case of wilful fire-raising in Kilmacolm. But how he had come to be put in as a review Senior Investigating Officer was still something of a mystery. Okay, the request had come from the usual admin channels, but he still felt uneasy about it. Someone in K Division had reported Ray as being less than satisfactory on this job. That was the rumour anyhow. And if he was a betting man, William Lorimer would have put his money on the female DI who had set out to give him such a hard time today.

  It was as if Rhoda Martin was on a guilt trip, he thought, remembering the way she’d glowered furiously at him. That was more than resentment on behalf of her old boss who had taken sudden early retirement. And she’d agreed too readily that the case needed to be reviewed, receiving some raised eyebrows from those among her fellow officers who’d been present in the Greenock division. So why did he have the feeling that there was more to her attitude than met the eye?

  As Maggie slipped in beside him, Lorimer turned on his side towards her. Folding her into his arms and letting her rub her cold feet against his own warm legs made any thought about Rhoda Martin vanish. That could wait till tomorrow. Right now there was only room for one woman in his bed.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was nice being wheeled along the pale laminate floors, the porter skilfully manoeuvring each doorway with not so much as a single bump. There was a nurse with her too, but none of them spoke as the walls slid past. She’d been glad to sink against the cushioned back of the chair, her feet supported by the metal rests. It was surprisingly comfortable; but then, weren’t there experts designing things like that, always bent on improving the . . . what was that word? The girl at the library. Her husband worked in that field. What was the word . . .? She frowned. It had been like this ever since that silly young doctor had asked her questions about who the prime minister was. Really! As if she didn’t know a simple thing like that. But some other things had eluded her; words that she knew she should remember, just hovering out of reach. ‘On the tip of my tongue,’ she wanted to say, but that particular organ had taken sides against her, too, refusing to let the words come out as they normally did.

  She was guilty of talking too much, she knew that. Sometimes Maggie cut off their conversation with a reminder of work to do in the evenings (she always had such a pile of marking, poor lamb) and she’d put the telephone down with the sense that she’d been rattling on good style, hardly letting her daughter put in a word at all. Now, ironically, that renegade voice of hers was refusing to cooperate. Maybe she was just tired. It had happened before: after her operation. She’d hardly been able to string two words together, feeling the edges of speech slip away into a void.

  Maybe that was why they weren’t engaging her in conversation right now. They knew she was too weary, wanted to spare her voice, perhaps. But, as Mrs Finlay listened to the chatter above the desk at the nurses’ station she felt . . . diminished.

  Everything was different down here. She knew there was a nurse just behind her - aware of a flap of striped, grey skirt and beige stocking-ed legs - a tall girl anyway, but from this disadvantaged point the girl seemed to have taken on Amazonian proportions. Mrs Finlay felt as though she had fallen into a strange Swiftian world. It was true, that cliché about people in wheelchairs being ignored. She might have been part of the mechanism itself for all the notice that anyone took.

  Mrs Finlay had seen it first when the tall, good-looking man at the end of the corridor had paused. A consultant, she’d decided, noticing his well-cut suit and colourful silk tie; he’d hesitated before an open door several yards in front of her then raised his hand in a salute. Was it someone who had recognised her? She’d seen so many already. Or was he simply being polite? She’d attempted to lift her own hand in reply, the smile automatic, eyes bright. But then as the chair rolled nearer, she realised that he was looking over her, at someone else entirely, and in that moment she knew just how invisible she had become. Nobody up there within the able bodied of the population towering over her really took any notice of a woman in a wheelchair, except to acknowledge that there was one. A woman-in-a-wheelchair .

  Strangely she didn’t resent it. The experience was still too new, untested and, besides, it was only a temporary change until she was better. It wouldn’t be long - surely - until they fixed whatever had happened to this stupid side of her; this frozen space that had somehow closed down in that spasm of pain. It had been like a jolt of electric current surging through her, then snapping off one of her terminals. Now all they needed was the right sort of engineer to fix it. Just like the nice young boy who had come to sort her TV when everything had changed to digital.

  Mrs Finlay smiled to herself, unable to see the crooked lift of her lips. Yes. Someone would fix it.

  Now they were off again, rolling along another long corridor, and she had no idea what was happening, where she was being taken. At the turn of a corner she saw a patient being wheeled along, travelling towards them. It was a woman. And as they passed, their eyes met for an instant and Mrs Finlay saw an expression of pity in the other woman’s face followed by the merest nod of fellow feeling.

  In that moment she felt a sudden shock of understanding. She tried to twist away, to raise her hand to make them stop the relentless progress of the chair. But only a low moan issued from her mouth, unheard against the roll of wheels.

  And where was Maggie? Why wasn’t she . . . here. To make them. Stop. Explain what was . . . going wrong?

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

  ‘It’s Mum.’ Maggie sounded out of breath as if she had been running. ‘She’s in hospital. They say it’s a stroke . . .’

  Lorimer heard the catch in her voice just as he caught the glance of the woman across the desk, one eyebrow arched in the faintest hint of curiosity.

  ‘D’you want me there?’ He hadn’t intended to sound so terse, but with DI Martin listening intently to his side of the conversation, Lorimer wanted nothing more than to be alone with his wife, consoling her wherever she was, unhampered by this review case. The pause from the other end told him more than any words could have: Maggie realised he was busy and was about to tell him not to bother.

  ‘I can be with you in less than an hour,’ he continued, giving his watch a quick glance. The layout of this unfamiliar office didn’t seem to include a wall clock.

  ‘It’s okay. I can call you later once I know what they’re going to do.’

  ‘How bad is she?’ Lorimer asked, turning his head aside from Rhoda Martin’s direct stare.

  ‘We won’t know until they have all the test result
s but she’s paralysed down one side and can’t talk too well. She knows me, though. Don’t worry about that!’

  He smiled, hearing the relief in her voice laced with a hint of humour. It was bad but not too bad, she seemed to be saying.

  ‘Keep in touch. Let me know what’s happening and I’ll see if I can catch up with you there. All right?’