Five Ways to Kill a Man Read online

  Lifting the phone, Lorimer decided that his first priority was DCI Colin Ray. He’d be in a rotten enough situation right now with Grace’s death and the loss of his job without the feeling that he was being sidelined.

  ‘Colin? Bill Lorimer here. How are you?’

  There was a lengthy pause as Lorimer waited for a response. Had his question been too trite? Over-hearty? How was he? Bloody awful, probably, but he’d not want to admit that, would he? They were west coast males, used to hiding their feelings beneath a veneer of macho gruffness; and being police officers meant that they were used to bottling up their emotions.

  ‘Lorimer. Aye. How’s it going down there?’ Colin Ray spoke at last, choosing to sidestep the actual question.

  ‘Just started yesterday. Hoped we could have a bit of a chat about the case before I began delving into the paperwork.’

  ‘Aye. Well, there’ll be plenty of that, I suppose.’

  There was another pause that became too long for comfort. He’d have to say something, now, wouldn’t he?

  ‘Maggie and I were really sorry about Grace,’ Lorimer said, lowering his voice to a tone of quiet sincerity.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ray replied. Another pause followed but this time Lorimer could hear the former police officer blowing his nose and he guessed at the sort of trial this must be for Ray. All the more reason why he needed to meet up and talk about other things, Lorimer told himself.

  ‘Any chance of seeing you today? I could come over to your place if you’d rather not come down here,’ he suggested.

  There was a snort of derisive laughter from the other end of the line. ‘Naw, the place is a tip. And I’d rather not have you over, if you don’t mind. How about somewhere down the coast? Say Cardwell Bay Garden Centre. D’you know where that is?’

  ‘Sure. I can be there in less than twenty minutes. What time suits you?’

  Again the pause as Colin Ray considered the proposal. Lorimer wondered what state the man was in, whether he was even up and dressed properly at this time in the morning.

  ‘Make it another hour, eh? Would nine-thirty be okay? Meet you in the tea room.’

  ‘Fine. See you there.’

  ‘Aye, an’ you’re paying.’

  Lorimer could just discern the faintest trace of humour in the retired DCI’s tone as he put the phone down.

  Leaving a message for the staff, Lorimer grabbed his coat and headed down to the car park. Swinging the dark blue Lexus out into the dual carriageway, he felt a slight sense of playing hookey as he left the divisional headquarters behind. But, he reasoned, the other officers would surely appreciate him giving Colin Ray his place? At least, those whose loyalty to their old boss was not in question.

  Cardwell Bay lay on the outskirts of the seaside town of Gourock, on the road towards Inverkip and the Ayrshire coast. It was the main route to Wemyss Bay, the small village where ferries arrived from the Island of Bute a mere half hour’s sail away. Rothesay, across the stretch of water from the mainland, had been a popular holiday destination during much of the twentieth century, particularly after the rail link had been established between Glasgow and the coastal towns. He and Maggie had spent some relaxing weekends there during their courting days. Now, as he drove past the old open-air swimming pool in Gourock, Lorimer felt a certain nostalgia for those times.

  Being in the city had given him a different perspective on things. Like crime and criminals. Perhaps it was time to see life from a more rural point of view. Maybe the fire-raiser’s attack on the house in Kilmacolm should be seen as a stupid prank that simply went wrong? Not as a vicious, deliberate killing. But, thought Lorimer as he looked out over the blue waters of the Clyde, their white caps tossed by a sudden squally wind, somewhere along the line a finger had been pointed at the anonymous low-lives in the district. Thugs from Port Glasgow was one suggestion he’d read on the initial report. The fire service was always being called out to random fires down there. But with no corroboration, that was all speculation. And speculation wasn’t hard evidence.

  As he turned into the huge open gateway at the garden centre, Lorimer watched other drivers parking as near to the entrance as they could. They’d be returning in an hour or so with trolleys full of stuff for their gardens. It was almost mid-February and the planters by the automatic doors were full of winter pansies and snowdrops. Too late for planting bulbs and too early for bedding plants, these keen gardeners might well be paying attention to stuff like feeding their winter grass or mending some storm-wrecked fencing. Or did they simply want a quick getaway after their morning coffee? The rain was never far away here on the west coast. It might be bright and blue now but give it another wee while and dark clouds could obliterate that sunshine.

  Colin Ray was sitting with his back to Lorimer as he entered the capacious tea room. He remembered Ray as a big man but seeing him sat there hunched over the table, Lorimer felt that he’d been diminished by his wife’s death.

  ‘Colin?’ The man stood up and for a moment each looked into the eyes of the other, hands clasped in a warm grasp that betokened nothing more than one man’s feeling for the other. That was all it took, just that one handshake and a look that said how sorry Lorimer was, how grateful it hadn’t been his Maggie and how he wanted to make things easier for the man who’d lost the love of his life.

  ‘Aye,’ Colin Ray said at last, the word drawn out like a sigh. ‘Well, here you are, then,’ he added, nodding his head as though he were acknowledging his fate.

  ‘Tea or coffee? And something to eat?’

  ‘Coffee. Just something with milk. Oh, and see if they’ve got any Danish pastries, will you?’

  Lorimer grinned as he turned away. He’d order a plateful of them, reasoning that Ray probably hadn’t had breakfast; besides, he’d a weakness for Danish pastries, himself, a fact that was well known back in his own canteen.

  ‘I didn’t get down to see her often enough,’ Ray began, looking down at the mug of coffee, one finger hovering over the selection of cakes. ‘Too busy.’

  Lorimer nodded but said nothing. It was a perennial problem with senior officers: the job taking precedence over home and family life, sometimes to the detriment of a marriage. They were always too busy. Crime didn’t take a holiday, did it?

  ‘Tried to see her when I could and then . . .’ Ray broke off with a shrug that expressed more than mere words could achieve. ‘Well, the job suddenly wasn’t important any more, was it? Grace was running out of time, you see. I just couldn’t be arsed, if you want to know the truth.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll quote that in my report.’ Lorimer smiled at him gently.

  ‘Och, I’m past bothering what you write, frankly. Retired, pensioned off. Who gives a monkey’s what I say now?’

  ‘Actually I do,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘How’s that?’ Ray’s head came up suddenly, frowning as he looked his former fellow officer in the eyes. ‘Stickler for the details, is that it? Didn’t have you down as a pen pusher, Lorimer. Thought that was more Mitchison’s style.’

  ‘Stickler for the facts, maybe,’ he replied. ‘Look, Colin, I don’t like doing this review any more than your former officers like having me hanging round their necks, but there are things I really want to know about that fire. Call me a nosy beggar, if you like, but there were rumours at the time that not everything was being done by the book.’

  Colin Ray held Lorimer’s blue gaze as long as he was able, his own eyes fierce with a sudden anger. Then he looked away again, taking a sip of his coffee as if to delay his answer.

  ‘What are you saying, Lorimer?’

  ‘I’m asking you, Colin. About the case. It wasn’t just that you spent time with Grace. And God knows no one in their right minds would blame you for that. No. It’s the way the finger was pointed at local villains. But not at anyone in particular. Get what I mean?’

  ‘You think that smells funny?’

  ‘Aye, I do. Strikes me that not a lot was done to investigate the victi
ms’ own background.’

  Colin Ray shook his head. ‘Och, well, I suppose it’ll all come out somehow and better you hear it from me than one of the others.’

  Lorimer stopped his cup halfway to his mouth and put it back on to the table.

  ‘Was hauled in to Pitt Street for a wee chat with our Chief Constable. David Isherwood. Did you know that he lives up in Kilmacolm? No? Well, anyway, he wanted to warn me off any sniffing around Jackson’s business affairs.’

  ‘And ordinarily you might have ignored that and just got on with the job?’

  ‘Aye, I’m as ornery a bastard as you are, Lorimer.’ Ray smiled properly for the first time that morning.

  ‘But Grace . . .’

  ‘. . . was a damn sight more important than bothering my ginger with what I was supposed not to do, see?’

  ‘And now?’

  Colin Ray gave another wintry smile. ‘If I were in charge of a review I’d make it my business to see everything that had been missed. No stone unturned. No ignoring any wee slimy creatures that could be lurking among Jackson’s affairs.’

  The sky had closed in, grey and louring, by the time he left Cardwell Bay and headed back up the coast road, the first few drops of rain spotting the windscreen. A typical change in the weather, Lorimer thought to himself, turning the heater up a notch. The keen gardeners round these parts might well be spreading sharp sand on to their perfect lawns, but surely it would be a good while before the appearance of spring flowers heralded some warmth in the ground. As if in tune with his thoughts, a blast of wind from across the river shook the big car and the rain began in earnest.

  He’d spent a productive hour with the retired DCI. And now Lorimer knew where he wanted to begin on the pile of paperwork that waited back at Greenock HQ.

  Thinking of the man who had shaken his hand as they’d parted, Lorimer wondered what sort of life the former police officer could enjoy now. Ray hadn’t mentioned any family but Lorimer thought he’d remembered Maggie saying something about a married daughter.

  I’ll be put out to grass one day, too, if I survive to pensionable age, Lorimer suddenly thought. And then what? a little voice asked. Something related to policing? There were no children to follow them on, so there would be no wee ones to tug his trouser legs in years to come and call him Grandpa. Lorimer shook his head as if to rid himself of such notions. That prospect was years away and, besides, he had plenty to occupy his thoughts right now without worrying about the distant future.

  But what about Maggie’s mum? How was she coping and, if she was able to come home from hospital, would she be fit to stay in her own little house again? That was something they’d need to discuss. But not until the subject arose, he told himself firmly. Meantime he’d concentrate on the case in hand. And, now that he’d spoken to Colin Ray, it offered the prospect of being a more interesting investigation than he’d at first assumed.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dr Solomon Brightman smiled and hummed a little tune to himself. Outside the windowless lecture theatre the rain might be sweeping down in sheets; here it was warm and dry and the babble of student voices told him that there were lots of young minds eagerly awaiting his thoughts on behavioural psychology. The spring term, so-called, lasted right up until Easter when the students would suddenly be seized with panic at the thought of final exams on the horizon; but now, with Valentine’s day imminent, there was a more genial atmosphere in his classes.

  ‘Love,’ he began and, at the sound of his voice, all heads turned towards the bearded man with eyes twinkling brightly behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, the chatter suddenly silenced.

  ‘Love is in the air,’ he continued, beaming at them and evoking a ripple of laughter. ‘Saint Valentine, the patron saint of love; romantic stories fuelling our desire for a vicarious experience of love; songs from the time of troubadours to present-day rap enjoining us to celebrate the coupling of men and women . . .’ Solly continued to beam at them, wiggling the fingers of his left hand to show off his new wedding ring. The clapping began at the back of the lecture theatre and soon there were whistles and whoops as the entire student audience applauded their favourite lecturer.

  ‘You see, even I am not immune from the shafts of Cupid’s arrows.’ Solly grinned at them as the noise died away.

  ‘Love, however, is sometimes seen as a force of darkness rather than light. It may destroy as well as uplift a human being. In all its vagaries, there is possibly no other emotion that has the power to change the way we behave.’

  Solly let his smile disappear. The lecture was sometimes regarded as harsh by those who had never heard it before; a come-down from the heights of erotic passion to the more sinister aspects of jealousy and revenge. What people in the past had done in the name of love was sometimes hard to fathom, but Dr Brightman owed it to his students to delineate such examples and use them to back up his premises about emotional behaviour.

  It was a quieter and more sober group that left the lecture theatre, most of them nodding in Solly’s direction, pleased with what they had heard, for it had given them plenty to think about in this basic course of behavioural psychology. Some of them would use the class as a stepping stone to a general arts degree, a few would return to junior honours and some might even apply for a postgraduate degree, inspired by people like Dr Brightman. His work was well known in academic circles within the UK now and the psychologist had begun to gain a reputation as a forensic psychologist who regularly helped police with investigations, particularly into cases of serial rapes and murders.

  Solly Brightman, the married man, counted himself as one of the most fortunate people in the world. Not only did he have a job that he loved (that word again!) but now he was dizzy with joy at having pledged himself for life to his darling Rosie. They had spent a magical time in New Zealand, doing things he’d never dreamt of attempting, like white-water rafting. Rosie’s outgoing nature impelled him to tackle such challenges and, to his delight, Solly found that they had evoked something inside him, a spirit of recklessness that had long lain dormant. From the behavioural point of view it had been interesting to see how far he could push himself simply to keep up with Rosie and then experience the same thrill that she was experiencing. It just proved what he had always believed: there are untapped depths in human nature. All it might take was a set of circumstances to release these hidden qualities. And now, back in Glasgow, Solly felt that his life had been changed by these honeymoon experiences. In some strange way he was no longer alone in the world, but linked to another human being whose aim in life was to care for him. He, too, had taken a vow to love, honour and cherish his beloved. And wasn’t Rosie all the more precious to him since she had survived that near-fatal car crash?

  Life, he mused as he closed the door of his office, had dealt him rather a fine hand. He pulled out the drawer at the front of his desk, taking out what he hoped was a tasteful Valentine’s card. If Rosie sent one it would probably be a jokey sort of card, maybe even a bit rude. But this one was all hearts and flowers with a few rather nice lines to his darling wife. All my love, Solly, he wrote, then added a single kiss and sealed the card inside its envelope. Had he destroyed the students’ attitude to romantic love by that lecture? He hoped not. Love, as Desiderata said, was after all as perennial as the grass.

  Closing the drawer again, Solly turned to his laptop and opened a file. He was currently writing on the subject of female psychotic behaviour, much of it based on case studies of women in high security mental institutions. The nub of his work was to demonstrate what was behind the sort of violence that had been a part of these patients’ behaviour. It had struck Solly quite forcefully that although these case studies revealed a lesser degree of violent behaviour than had been seen in their male counterparts, many of them had notched up a sizeable tally of deaths. The idea of women as killers was not something readily acknowledged by the public; perhaps it was time to redress the balance in people’s perceptions of violent crime.

  ‘If th
ere is anything you can remember that wasn’t done at the time, then now is your chance to put that right,’ Lorimer told the assembled officers. ‘You aren’t doing this to please me or indeed the people who ordered me to undertake this review,’ he continued, his tone slightly sardonic. ‘And don’t think that by coming forward you are letting Colin Ray down. I’ve spoken to DCI Ray already this morning and he’s very much in favour of this review being done as thoroughly as possible.’