The Riverman lab-4 Read online

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’ he asked, the routine question sounding annoyingly clichéd as he spoke.

  ‘Yesterday. No. What day is it today?’ she asked, looking at Annie Irvine as if only a woman could keep track of such things.

  ‘Friday,’ Annie replied. Duncan Forbes’ body had been washed up on the shores of the Clyde the previous morning following that odd telephone call. They waited until the woman had worked this out for herself.

  ‘Duncan left for the office on Wednesday and was due to go to some leaving party that evening,’ she began.

  ‘At the Crowne Plaza?’ Lorimer prompted.

  ‘Yes. He said he might come home first to change but he didn’t.’ The woman considered for a moment before continuing. ‘So I suppose I last saw him that morning before he left for work.’ Her hand threw back the rug and it fell to the carpet. ‘He said he’d be home before eleven.’ She looked up at Lorimer accusingly. ‘He said he would.’

  ‘Mr Forbes didn’t contact you at all then after Wednesday morning?’

  ‘No. I was out for most of the day anyway.’

  ‘Did he leave you a message, perhaps? From the office or from his mobile?’

  Elizabeth Forbes shook her head and looked down again. When she raised her face Lorimer could see her cheeks wet with tears.

  ‘Oh, if only he had!’ she cried. ‘At least I could listen to his voice on the tape. But now I’ve got nothing, nothing at all!’ And she sank her head into quivering hands, sobbing heavily from a throat already exhausted by too much weeping.

  Lorimer watched as Annie Irvine knelt by the woman’s side, holding her arm and making shushing noises as though she were calming a child. At last the sobs gave way and Elizabeth Forbes took the proffered tissue, blowing her nose noisily.

  ‘All right?’ Lorimer asked, his body bent towards the widow so that their eyes were level. She nodded, still too full to speak.

  ‘I have to ask you this, and I’m sorry if it upsets you, Mrs Forbes, but could you tell us if there was anything worrying your husband recently? Was he anxious about anything, do you know?’

  The moment Lorimer saw the woman’s face stiffen, he knew he’d hit a painful spot.

  ‘What was troubling him, Mrs Forbes?’ he continued, his voice gently inviting her confidence.

  Elizabeth Forbes glanced down into her handkerchief, deliberately avoiding his eyes.

  ‘We have to know what your husband’s state of mind was, you see,’ Lorimer told her. She shook her head as if trying to push away the implication of his words.

  ‘He wouldn’t …’ she began. ‘We were happy …’

  ‘Wouldn’t what, Mrs Forbes?’

  She looked up again. ‘Duncan would never have taken his own life,’ she said, sniffing loudly. ‘He had far too much to live for. Janey, the baby … oh, everything.’

  ‘But there was something on his mind?’ Lorimer persisted.

  Elizabeth Forbes nodded.

  ‘Can you tell us what that was?’

  ‘No. No, I can’t.’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘He never told me but I knew all right. I knew something was wrong. He was, well … preoccupied. More so than usual. And he was home late a lot more often from the office.’

  Lorimer saw her bite her lip. To keep from weeping again? Or to stop herself from sharing her own thoughts on what might have troubled her husband?

  ‘That’s all I can tell you, Chief Inspector.’ The woman’s shoulders sagged under the weight of Lorimer’s gaze.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Lorimer asked. ‘Could there have been a reason behind this accident?’ he asked smoothly, giving no inflection to the word. It was not up to him to suggest that Duncan Forbes had died at his own hand or that of another.

  Elizabeth Forbes shook her head again, but this time it was as if she were trying to reconcile herself with a sudden thought. ‘He …’ She looked away, biting her lower lip, then returned her gaze towards Lorimer. ‘He used to be an alcoholic, Chief Inspector,’ she said slowly. ‘But that was years ago. He never drank any more!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s not how it happened. I assure you!’

  Lorimer looked at her. The voice had no tremble now and her eyes were bright with anger as well as unshed tears.

  ‘We received a 999 call from a woman. She told us where the accident had taken place. You wouldn’t happen to know who that caller might be, Mrs Forbes?’

  Lorimer saw her face as she sank back against the recliner chair. It was like watching the shutters coming down on a window.

  ‘No.’

  The silence that followed hung heavily between them, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece unnaturally loud.

  ‘I think I need to rest now, Chief Inspector,’ Elizabeth Forbes told them, her voice suddenly firm.

  ‘If we need to call on you again, we’ll let you know, Mrs Forbes. We’ll see ourselves out. Thanks. Don’t get up,’ Lorimer said, rising to his feet.

  As they crossed the hall a voice could be heard singing somewhere in the house. Janey Collins was with her new baby, her father’s death temporarily forgotten in the need to comfort her child.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘It’s him, all right. Looks a bit the worse for drink, too, if you ask me.’

  Both men looked intently at the screen where the figure of a man weaved his way out of the Crowne Plaza and headed left, disappearing out of the frame.

  ‘Let’s see it again.’ Wilson pressed the rewind button and then stopped. Once again the dark shape of a man crossed the screen, coat flapping around his knees as if a sudden gust of wind had caught him unawares. Wilson pressed another button and the figure froze in wavy lines, forever stepping out of the shadows into a pool of artificial light. The man’s face was in profile, staring ahead as if he knew his destination. Then the DS released the captive image, letting Duncan Forbes step into the night and towards whatever fate had befallen him.

  ‘Aye. You’re right on both counts. Looks as if he’d had a skinful. Reckon he’d needed a bit of fresh air. Seems like he’s heading over towards the railings.’ Wilson shook his head in a world-weary manner. ‘Gets blotto, makes for the side of the river, spews up and falls in. Poor sod,’ he added.

  ‘You couldn’t just fall in like that,’ Cameron reasoned. ‘You’d have to climb over the rail, surely?’

  ‘Know that part of the river, then?’

  ‘Aye. I do. Cycled over Bell’s Bridge and the Millennium Bridge plenty of times,’ Cameron told him.

  ‘Oh, well. I’ll take your word for it. We’ll still have to record the way he was moving. It’s consistent with drunkenness and that’s what a court will ask for. If it comes to that. Personally I think we’re dealing with an accidental death.’

  ‘What about that phone call?’

  ‘Och, some woman sees the guy fall in and gets over-hysterical.’

  ‘The call was cut off rather abruptly,’ Cameron persisted.

  ‘Someone decided she shouldn’t be involved,’ Wilson answered, then, realizing what he’d said, he looked at the younger detective and both men raised their eyebrows in a speculative silence.

  *

  There was silence in the car as Lorimer drove back. He was thinking about what Elizabeth Forbes had eventually told them. That her late husband was a reformed alchoholic; that he’d never touched the stuff for years. There had been an angry insistence in her voice that worried the DCI. It was as if the lady did protest too much. When Lorimer had spoken of the 999 call, she had become tense and quiet again. Had it been the mention of a woman caller that had made her clam up like that? Or did she really suspect her husband had gone on a bender that had resulted in his death? She was in denial about something. And who could blame her? Lorimer felt a sudden pity for the woman they’d left behind in Bearsden. Whatever had happened to Duncan Forbes, there were other victims still suffering.

  ‘Okay, let’s leave this meantime. The toxicology report will no doubt give us the usual tale. T
oo much alcohol in the blood. Bad accident. End of story.’ Lorimer looked round at the officers who had spent no little time following up the mysterious telephone call. ‘Sorry about all of this. Our dear leader will probably blow a mild fuse but at least he can’t fault us for not following correct procedure.’ Lorimer grinned slightly as some of the officers shook their heads at yet another waste of time. Superintendent Mitchison was a stickler for going by the book and generating multiple reports for each and every bit of investigative work. In the few months that Lorimer had been acting superintendent during Mitchison’s sick leave, they had enjoyed a return to the old freedoms that certain European directives threatened to curb, as well as a rest from the endless paperwork.

  ‘What about the tapes?’ DC Cameron asked testily. His head ached from sitting in front of a VCR all afternoon and now the boss was telling them it was all a waste of time.

  ‘We retain them until the tox. report comes in. You can send them back after that. Sorry,’ Lorimer added, raising his eyebrows at Cameron’s scowl.

  There were mutterings as the officers left the room and Lorimer couldn’t blame them. A suspicious death was just that until proven otherwise and it would be more than their jobs were worth to ignore the signs. Still, that was one of the frustrations about police work. He closed his desk drawer and sat back with a sigh. Tomorrow would bring other crimes, other lines of inquiry, but it looked as if he’d heard the last of Duncan Forbes.

  CHAPTER 13

  The plane nosed up into the air and that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach made Michael Turner grin with pleasure. He was off! The roar from the aeroplane seemed to mirror the excitement he felt, as if he too were screaming with the engines, his whole body vibrating with joy.

  Since the news of his promotion, Michael hadn’t stopped for a moment: packing, sorting through his affairs and leaving the flat in the hands of the property agent. Then last night he’d spent some sweet hours with Jenny. He’d made promises they both knew would never be kept, but he’d made them anyway, between kisses that spoke only of here and now. He’d woken alone, the empty space beside him a sobering reminder of all he was leaving behind. No voice had disturbed him these past few days with the grim news about Duncan Forbes. Even the answering machine in his flat had remained strangely silent, though Michael had been far too busy to notice.

  As the seat-belt sign blinked off, Michael pressed the recliner button and settled back to enjoy the flight. He’d tucked a paperback and the Gazette into the seat pocket in front of him and now pondered which of the two to choose first. The paperback won. The Gazette, with that little news item about a man drowned in the river Clyde, remained folded between the in-flight magazine and a bottle of Highland Spring.

  It would be several days before Michael Turner learned about the death of his mentor and by that time he would be in no position to reveal the secrets he knew.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Liz, it’s me, Catherine.’

  There was a sound of heavy breathing, then a click as the line went dead.

  Catherine Devoy held the handset at arm’s length, puzzled, as if it had performed some obscene trick. Then she shrugged, replaced the telephone and lifted it again. Just as she was about to press the redial button, she paused. Maybe she had misdialled. Maybe that wasn’t Liz on the other end of the line. Just to be on the safe side, Catherine redialled the number and waited as the phone rang on and on. She sighed. There was no one home. That first call must have been a wrong number. Oh, well, she’d try again later on. There was no way she was going to duck out of being supportive to Duncan’s widow. No way at all. Alec had been adamant on that point.

  Liz sank back into her chair, trembling. What had she done? Catherine was just trying to be friendly, wasn’t she? Then why on earth had she bottled out of speaking to the woman? She caught sight of the photograph on the table by her side. It was a holiday snap of Duncan and herself up at the cottage, his arms full of brushwood for the fire, her hair blowing in the wind, both of them laughing. Her eyes filled again with the tears that just kept on coming. He had loved her; she knew it in her heart. So why was she feeling such pain, such terrible doubt? And why had she just cut Catherine off? Was every other woman in Duncan’s life going to be a potential mistress? Liz dropped her head into her hands, weeping freely through her fingers. Not Catherine, surely not Catherine, a voice drummed in her head.

  ‘Miss Devoy.’ A voice at her door made Catherine look up. It was Zoe Nicholl, Duncan’s secretary.

  ‘We’ve had a message from Kirkby Russell,’ the girl said.

  ‘Oh?’ Catherine cocked her head to one side. Kirkby Russell was Forbes Macgregor’s US partnership. Things had come a long way since the days when the practice had been run by Duncan’s father. Nowadays there were offices spread across the globe and Forbes Macgregor was a serious player on the international accountancy stage.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the girl began. ‘It’s about Michael. They want to know when he’s arriving.’

  Catherine Devoy frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, then, realizing how foolish the question sounded, added, ‘There must be some mistake. Michael was being met …’ she looked at her slim gold wristwatch, ‘yesterday afternoon about three o’ clock their time.’

  ‘Maybe there’s been a hold-up of some kind. Isn’t there a baggage handlers’ strike on?’

  ‘Yes, but that wouldn’t affect Michael’s flight. He was flying BA. There must be some mix-up,’ she said, dismissively. ‘Check our emails to them with the ETA and flight numbers. They should have been sent within the last week.’

  ‘Okay. Will do.’ Zoe turned on her heel, closing the door behind her.

  Catherine stared at the door. Something churned in her stomach. The acid reflux had worsened recently, a sure sign of stress. But Catherine Devoy was adept at hiding anything that would reveal her inner turmoil. She’d had to be, particularly in the last few months. Still, there was something disquieting about this little incident. Why had Kirkby Russell failed to make contact with Michael Turner? Surely he had arrived? And if not, what the hell would they all do about him now that he was out of their reach?

  CHAPTER 15

  It had not gone according to plan.

  JJ swore softly under his breath as he lugged the heavy bag of groceries up the concrete steps to the loft room. Carting food for a mark wasn’t in his job description: blowing him away, yes, but keeping him here, whining every time he showed up, no siree. If only he’d kept his mouth shut, then none of this would have happened. JJ recalled the conversation in the limo after he’d picked up the Scotsman from JFK.

  ‘Which part of the country you belong to?’ he’d asked. An innocent enough question, surely? It was just one little hike up from discussing the Yankees, which he usually did when softening them up before the kill. The guy had gone on at length about the beauties of Scotland until JJ changed the conversation.

  ‘What line a business you in?’

  Now the talk was all about the guy’s new job. JJ listened, prompting only when he needed to hear more. What had brought him out here? Why hadn’t he stayed on in Bonnie Scotland?

  Then the story had come tumbling out, the confession that didn’t matter a damn, you were only telling it to some dumb ass of a taxi driver you’d never see in your life again. JJ knew that was how their minds worked.

  Then JJ had found himself having to take out the folded bandana that he kept in the top pocket of his blue uniform jacket. The sweat trickled down the side of his face and as he dabbed at it, he took a surreptitious glance at the passenger in the back of the limo. He could take a risk or he could carry out his orders as usual. The thought of the consequences should his plan fail made him shudder. This guy was his passport to the good times, that was for sure. And nobody would suspect him. All they wanted was a body.

  The rest of the journey had passed in a blur as JJ turned the limo away from Jamaica Bay along the highway t
hat led into the city. He’d faked a grin as the guy exclaimed over his first sight of Brooklyn Bridge and even given him a spiel about what a great place he was coming to. His passenger had never batted an eyelid as they’d driven through Holland Tunnel then into the maze of city streets; the guy had been too busy turning his head this way and that, everything new to him, everything unfamiliar. JJ had kept that smile on his face; it was all one to the poor sap whether he was in downtown Manhattan or in any one of the ghettos that could conceal them until the driver had decided what to do.

  JJ’s instructions had been, as always, to do the job quickly and efficiently. A clean single shot followed by a trip out to the backwoods with a sack and shovel; that was the customary procedure. He’d pick up the rest of his fee when the limo was dropped off at the valet service depot and that would be that. No remorse, no questioning a conscience long-dulled by routine executions. JJ was a consummate businessman when it came to dispatching his victims.

  The man grumbled to himself as he reached the top step and put down the grocery sacks. Below him the sounds of distant sirens mingled with the screams of kids playing in a waste lot on the corner. He searched in his trouser pocket for the key then fitted it into the padlock, conscious of a stirring from within the room as he pushed open the door.

  Michael Turner lay on a bed next to the wall, his hands bound behind him, the red patterned bandana binding his mouth.

  ‘Feedin’ time,’ JJ told him, kicking shut the door with one foot as he carried the bags towards a table in the centre of the room. There was a moment when their eyes met and JJ hesitated. Then the older man turned away and busied himself emptying the groceries onto the table.