The Bird That Did Not Sing Page 7

  Asa crept barefoot across the threshold, stopping to peer out at the hallway. She blinked, wondering if she had dreamt the night of her arrival; this seemed so different from her memory of a long narrow place where danger lurked at either end like hunting beasts. The corridor was shorter than she remembered, a few feet away from the front door on her right and about the same distance to the light shining from a room at the far end where she could hear the hum of a machine and the noise of music playing. Confused, she wondered whether she should return to the room, gather up the clothes she had been given and dress herself as quickly as possible. Had the woman made an error in leaving the door open? Would she be punished if she left the room and stepped into that lozenge of brightness?

  Curiosity overcame the young girl’s trepidation and she walked on silent feet towards the source of that warmth and brightness, lured as certainly as a moth to a candle. But there was no flame to scorch her fleecy Primark pyjamas, just a grin from Shereen, who had turned from whatever she was doing at the kitchen sink.

  There were four high stools arranged around a length of table, and Asa slid silently on to one of them, watching Shereen, waiting to see if the woman would shoo her back to the room.

  ‘More tea?’ Shereen waved a teapot aloft, pointing at it with a friendly smile.

  Asa nodded, understanding the gesture and sniffing the air to catch again the scent of the redbush tea leaves. Moretea. She held the word to her like a talisman, guessing incorrectly that this was the English word for rooibos. Staring at Shereen, she suddenly saw this fat, friendly woman as a possible route of escape. She would teach her English words, enough for Asa to tell someone out there that she had been captured, taken from her home and forced on that terrible journey. For, the girl reasoned, until she could speak the language, she was as effectively imprisoned in this land as if they had chained her to a wall and left her to rot.

  Shereen waddled over to the table and placed a brown earthenware teapot between them.

  ‘It takes time to brew,’ she informed Asa, receiving only an uncomprehending stare.

  ‘Tea,’ Shereen said, pointing to the pot.

  ‘Moretea,’ Asa replied brightly as if batting back the single syllable with two of her own.

  Shereen sighed and tried again. ‘Tea,’ she said. Lumbering off her stool, she opened a cupboard and took out a tin. ‘Here,’ she said, opening it and showing the contents to Asa. ‘Tea.’

  And so it was: dark leaves dried from the rooibos, their smoky fragrance rising as Shereen stirred them with one chubby finger.

  ‘Tea,’ Asa said.

  ‘Cup,’ Shereen continued, warming to her role as the girl’s instructress as she touched the porcelain mug beside her.

  ‘Cup,’ Asa said, her eyes darting back to Shereen’s to seek her approbation.

  The woman grinned, then, as though something had come into her mind, stroked the line of her mouth with an index finger.

  ‘Smile,’ she said.

  Asa touched her own mouth and repeated the word. But this time there was something wrong.

  ‘Nah, not like that, girl. See, like this,’ and Shereen swept her finger over her mouth in an exaggerated curve. ‘Smile, see?’

  Drawing closer to Asa, she touched the girl’s lips, making the same shape so that Asa did smile, the moment of understanding a rare moment of joy between them.

  ‘Smile, kid,’ the man commanded, lowering the camera for a moment to jerk his head at Asa. The image would be transferred to a fake passport later, something the girl might never even see.

  And she tried to smile, her face muscles obedient to the command, though in truth her heart fluttered with terror lest this man be taking part of her very soul away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Don’t like it,’ the white-coated woman murmured, shaking her head as she sat back from examining the tissue slide under the microscope. ‘Don’t like it at all,’ she added, casting a quick glance at the toxicology report on her computer screen. Thanks to the new range of screening techniques, the samples had undergone rigorous examination, something that did not happen in every laboratory in the country. LC-QTOF was able to find multifarious substances, and now it seemed as though something highly unusual had turned up on their doorstep.

  The samples had been hurried for testing as soon as the post-mortem had taken place, and now, as the afternoon sun slanted into the room, Dr Rosie Fergusson blinked against its rays, a frown of concern across her brow as she reread the words on the computer screen. A home-made tincture of aconitum roots… several fatal deaths in China where highly concentrated forms of the tincture were sometimes prepared… No history of such incidents occurring in the UK.

  Lorimer had been adamant that Rosie should call him with the results as soon as humanly possible; now it puzzled the consultant pathologist why he was in such a tearing rush over this. Wanting to have the body released early was quite understandable, of course. But was there another reason why he had wanted Gilmartin’s tox results so quickly? Lorimer hadn’t once hinted at anything sinister surrounding the sudden death of his friend’s husband; had there been something that he had suspected and kept to himself? Rosie shook her head. No, they knew one another better than that. He would have said straight off if he had expected Rosie and her team to find any abnormalities.

  ‘So maybe you won’t like it much either,’ Rosie muttered quietly, thinking of Lorimer as she looked at the telephone on her desk. ‘Maybe not what you were expecting, hm?’

  In a matter of minutes the test results were logged and an email with its attachment sent to her friend at A Division, whose insistence on prioritising this case had made Rosie Fergusson just a tad curious. Why was he being so pushy about getting the toxicology results back? There had been something edgy in Lorimer’s voice when he had asked this favour. For some reason he had chosen not to share the story behind the case, but one thing she did know as she lifted the telephone: Charles Gilmartin, deceased, had not died of cardiac arrhythmia.

  Lorimer read the email twice, blinking to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, then he swore softly under his breath, the unaccustomed oath repeated as his fist thumped the edge of his desk.

  The tox reports showed a level of poison in Gilmartin’s bloodstream that would have killed him in seconds. And its effects were exactly the same as if he really had died of a heart attack, Rosie had told him, her voice still ringing in his ears. Just sent you an attachment, she’d said. The pathologist had been adamant that the results were correct, and now, seeing them in black and white, Lorimer wondered what sort of conclusions Rosie had come to. She hadn’t asked any probing questions, nor had he given any more information about Gilmartin. Yet his mind had immediately turned to the flat near the Gorbals. Was there anything there that he might have missed?

  Lorimer sat back in his chair, head spinning. What the hell was he going to tell his old friend? Was there a possibility that Gilmartin had taken his own life? Had he been experiencing personal worries that might have tipped him over the edge? Or had he been suffering from depression? The policeman frowned. From what Vivien had told him, he knew that Charles Gilmartin had been full of plans for this forthcoming festival. The Scottish government had backed a number of enterprises to complement Glasgow 2014, many of them in the world of the arts. Maggie had signed up for several festivals, some with her senior pupils, others simply for her own interest.

  Lorimer leaned forward, rereading the words on the screen. The other possibility didn’t make sense either. Who could have entered that flat and administered a toxic substance to Vivien’s husband while she was at the school reunion? The time of death had been calculated as around ten o’clock in the evening, when he and Vivien had been sitting side by side on that playground bench reminiscing about days gone by. She hadn’t got back to the flat till well after one a.m.: those who arranged events were always required to stay till the bitter end.

  A groan escaped from the detective super’s lips at the irony of his
thought. A bitter end right enough, both to the evening she had planned for so long and to Gilmartin’s life. Lorimer had pushed for the tox results to come back quickly so that Vivien might have her husband’s body released for his funeral. He had even hinted that he might have good news on that front today. But now… how was he going to tell her that her husband might have deliberately taken his own life?

  Maggie Lorimer’s hand shook as she replaced the handset. No, she had insisted, she couldn’t tell Vivien; he would have to come home and break that news to the woman herself. To be fair, he hadn’t asked her to do it. But having this knowledge about the dead man while Vivien was still unaware of it filled Maggie with a kind of horror. He’d be home within the hour, he’d promised. But he couldn’t stay long. There was a new case that was taking up his attention.

  Maggie gritted her teeth. Wasn’t it always the same? Crime didn’t take a rest, one of her husband’s colleagues had remarked ages ago, and it was true. Sometimes they’d had to cut short a holiday so that Lorimer could attend to something vital; other times she’d been left sitting at her own dining table apologising to guests for her husband’s hasty departure. Maybe it was just as well that there had been no family. What would she have said to little children whenever their daddy had to leave them behind? Maggie gave herself a shake. Why on earth was she thinking these maudlin thoughts when that poor woman sitting in the garden was about to have her world turned upside down?

  Vivien had her eyes closed. She was wearing sunglasses, but even so, the brightness of this April day was dazzling. She had applied her usual cream with its high sun factor, a necessity for a fair skin like hers, and now she was enjoying the sensation of warmth on her bare arms and legs. Lying back on the steamer chair, pillows thoughtfully provided by Lorimer’s wife, Vivien allowed herself to drift into a mellow place between sleeping and waking. Somewhere a bird sang in the shrubbery, its sweet notes adding to the overall ambience of the day. There was no sign of the marmalade cat that made her stiffen with unreasonable fear every time it slunk past. It was, Vivien thought, letting her fancy wander, as if some unseen hand had set the stage: lighting bright on this side, music playing from the console at the back of the theatre and Vivien herself centre stage, caught in the moment, all eyes fixed on her recumbent form. She should concentrate on the moment, forget that Maggie was bustling around in the kitchen (she could discern noises though the open door) and listen instead to that inner voice that was telling her that all would be well.

  ‘Hello? Maggie?’ Lorimer closed the front door behind him and strode into the long room that combined study, lounge and dining kitchen, but there was no sign of either Vivien or Maggie. The sun streamed through the back door to the garden and he hesitated, listening for the sounds of voices.

  Through the kitchen window he could see Vivien lying on the recliner, hands folded across her lap. Maggie was sitting opposite, a book in her hands, her sunglasses tilted forward on her nose. ‘You are a good woman,’ he whispered softly under his breath, looking at his wife. ‘No wonder I love you,’ he added with a sigh. For a moment he allowed the pair of them to remain quietly in the sun, undisturbed by the words he would soon utter that would destroy the peace of their day.

  He stepped out of the shadow of the house into the sunlight, and as if he had called her name, Vivien sat up, her face turned towards him.

  ‘What is it?’

  As soon as she saw him, Maggie laid aside her book and came to stand by the woman’s side.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘Vivien, I’m really sorry but it’s not good news.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ She swung her legs to one side, grasping the edge of the wooden recliner with both hands. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her voice trembling with fear.

  Lorimer hunkered down beside her. ‘Charles did not die of a heart attack, Vivien. It was something else.’

  The red-haired woman frowned. ‘But the doctor said…’

  ‘The doctor was quite correct to make the assumption. All of the signs seemed to indicate a heart attack. But that wasn’t what happened, my dear.’ He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. ‘A toxic substance has been found in his bloodstream.’

  ‘Was it an accident?’ she whispered.

  Lorimer shook his head. There was no way of denying this sort of evidence.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it appears that he may have deliberately taken his own life.’

  Vivien’s hand flew to her mouth and she shrank away, her back bowed as though the weight of this news had crushed her entire body.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Lorimer said again, looking at the woman’s face, trying to see if she was beginning to weep. But it was impossible to make out her green eyes behind those sunglasses, and all he could see were twin reflections of his own image bending towards the woman he had once loved.

  ‘What happens now?’ Maggie spoke quietly as she waited for the kettle to boil. Vivien had disappeared upstairs to the bathroom, letting them have a few moments alone together.

  ‘Further investigations,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘Up to the Fiscal, really. But there’s no way she can have his body for burial right now.’

  ‘What do you think she’ll want to do?’ Maggie asked, looking intently at her husband. She can’t stay here, she wanted to say, but the words simply refused to be uttered.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lorimer replied truthfully. ‘There are several things she might want to see to. Like what’s happening about this theatrical enterprise.’

  ‘Surely there will be someone else to take charge of that? Charles Gilmartin must have had other assistants for something as big as this.’

  ‘I suppose so. Has Vivien spoken to you about any of that?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie admitted. She bit her lip. Best to be honest, she told herself. ‘How do I go about asking her without sounding like we want her to leave?’ she said at last.

  ‘Do you want her to leave?’ Lorimer was frowning.

  Maggie hesitated. ‘It’s awkward…’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to have anywhere else to go, Mags. Surely we can help her out for a few more days?’

  ‘Of course…’ Maggie broke off, hearing the creak of footsteps on the stairs. ‘I’ll make the tea, shall I?’ She turned away, a surge of anger making her feel ashamed of herself for wanting rid of their house guest and irked that Bill might be thinking less of her for even hinting at such a thing.

  Vivien stood across from them, her red hair a bright halo from the sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window. She held the sunglasses in her hand now and her eyes looked as though she had scrubbed them hard after a bout of weeping.

  The very sight of her made Maggie feel a dreadful sense of guilt. How would you feel if it was Bill who’d died? a little voice asked.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Lorimer said, already at his friend’s side, guiding her to a chair.

  Maggie busied herself with teacups and milk, glancing covertly towards the pair of them, listening intently.

  ‘We’re more than happy for you to stay here while you sort things out, Vivien,’ he was saying, a kind hand on her arm. ‘There’s no way of telling how long this investigation might take. What do you want to do?’

  Vivien looked up as if to catch Maggie’s eye, but she had anticipated this and looked down, concentrating on pouring tea into the three cups, refusing to let herself be drawn into any discussion lest she give herself away.

  ‘It’s very kind of you… really,’ Vivien said in a small voice. ‘Taking a stranger into your home…’

  ‘Hardly a stranger.’ Lorimer gave a smile, covering her hand with his.

  ‘Tea?’ Maggie brought the tray to the little table and passed a cup to Vivien.

  ‘Thanks, Maggie. You’ve been marvellous,’ Vivien said sweetly, her green eyes meeting Maggie’s own.

  She was on the point of breaking down again, Maggie could see, the woman’s voice husky with tears. Surely a few more days wouldn’t matter? And how would she reply withou
t sounding insincere?

  As if sensing her hesitation, Lorimer came to his wife’s rescue.

  ‘Maggie always rises to the occasion,’ he said. ‘How she’s put up with me all these years, goodness knows.’ He grinned ruefully across at his wife, making Maggie feel at once reassured.

  ‘I can believe it,’ Vivien said slowly, looking from one to the other. ‘You’re a very special couple.’

  ‘Meantime, perhaps there are people you need to contact? Folk from the theatre company?’ Lorimer suggested.

  Vivien nodded. ‘Everyone is still down in London at the moment. It was only Charles… Charles and I who came north to arrange the administration of things from this end.’

  ‘But you have people you can call?’

  She nodded. ‘Martin Goodfellow. Charles’s assistant. I already called him. He knows Charles died…’ She broke off, one hand flying to her mouth. ‘Oh God, I suppose I have to tell him what’s happened now, don’t I?’

  Maggie saw the colour drain from the woman’s face.

  ‘You can say that more tests are being done. Nothing of this needs to be made public just yet,’ Lorimer reassured her.

  ‘So the press…?’

  ‘Nobody will know anything until the Procurator Fiscal decides what steps to take,’ he said firmly. ‘I think it would be best if you could let this Goodfellow chap take over all the theatre management now, don’t you?’

  ‘But the project can’t go on without Charles,’ Vivien said suddenly. ‘He was funding almost the entire thing by himself.’

  ‘Wasn’t it backed by the Scottish government?’ Maggie asked.

  Vivien shook her head. ‘There was just a grant to pay for evaluating its effect on Scottish tourism. No core funding.’ She gave a sigh. ‘That was all going to be met from Charles’s personal money.’

  ‘So will the project not go ahead now?’

  Vivien shook her head. ‘Charles was the project,’ she said vehemently. ‘There’s no way it can possibly carry on now he’s gone.’