Five Ways to Kill a Man Page 7

  There was the slightest murmur of what sounded like approval, and Lorimer allowed himself a mental pat on the back. He’d already looked at staffing levels on the initial case, and in this HQ in general, and found that it was the old story of too few bodies spread too thinly over too many ongoing cases. And Kate Clark’s maternity leave would bring that figure down to unacceptable, in his opinion. She had been the admin person in Colin’s team and Lorimer knew it would be wise to continue her in that role.

  The tannoy system burst into life from the front bar calling for someone and Lorimer stopped speaking, wondering for a moment if this was a good place to take a break. He’d made DI Martin his allocator so she was going to be kept fairly busy writing out the various actions and handing them to the other officers. It hadn’t been her remit under Colin Ray and Lorimer found himself wondering why. She was clearly an able officer but such tasks meant liaising closely with the SIO; had Colin been less than friendly with the woman? And was this a reason for her aggressive attitude?

  ‘Right, I’ll be here when you have anything relevant to report,’ Lorimer told them, standing up so that they knew it was time to leave.

  As they trooped out, Lorimer found himself wishing for his own room back in Glasgow, not this square box of an office that was doubling as an incident room. Okay, so the view beyond the blue Venetian blinds was guaranteed to take one’s mind off work, with its expanse of water and hills, but that was poor compensation for the inconvenience of having folk dropping in and out all the time.

  Lorimer was happy with how things had progressed so far: it had been a fruitful morning spent with the members of his new review team. They had not been the belligerent group that he had feared they might be and he wondered if Kate Clark’s influence had tempered their initial manner towards him. Perhaps his own attitude of Well I’m here and this is a job that we must get through together had struck a chord with them. Whatever, he was now in a far better mood to begin tackling the masses of paperwork lying on his desk. DI Martin would delegate some of the more routine stuff to members of the team, hopefully urging them to pick it over with a fresh eye even when boredom threatened. But he’d kept some things for himself; there were several witness statements that he wanted to examine.

  A knock at his door made him look up.

  ‘Come in,’ he called and saw a young uniformed officer who had been among the officers earlier.

  The surprise must have shown on his face for the constable immediately blurted out, ‘Constable Dodgson, sir. I was one of the first officers at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Lorimer smiled encouragingly. ‘Take a seat, constable. What can I do for you?’

  The young man seemed ill at ease, sitting right on the edge of his chair and biting his lower lip. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘it might be a bit silly. In fact I didn’t know what to do at the time. I mean we’d been told about it at the course. But I suppose I didn’t want to seem pushy . . .’

  ‘Woah!’ exclaimed Lorimer. ‘Facts, please. Just tell me what you did, constable and we’ll take it from there, okay?’

  The young man nodded then took a deep breath. ‘I get thirsty a lot. I find the patrol cars awfully hot so I carry bottled water with me,’ he began. ‘So when we arrived at the fire I thought I’d do what they’d shown us on the course.’

  ‘Go on,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘Well, we’d been told that vapours from a fire might be lost into the atmosphere quite quickly so I threw the contents of my water bottle into the fire and I also had one of these.’ He fished in his tunic pocket and brought out a tiny glass bottle, a bijou bottle, used by police officers for taking samples of drink from neds on street corners.

  ‘I let the vapours fill the one I was carrying,’ he said.

  ‘And what happened to that bottle?’ Lorimer asked, thinking that he knew exactly how the officer was going to respond.

  ‘It’s still in my locker, sir,’ Dodgson replied, his voice high with anxiety.

  Lorimer sat still for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Why? Didn’t you think this might be evidence that could be crucial to the investigation?’

  Dodgson immediately coloured up and Lorimer saw for the first time how young he really was.

  ‘Thought they’d laugh at me, sir,’ he muttered at last, hanging his head so he didn’t have to look the SIO in the eye.

  Lorimer chewed his lip thoughtfully. Dodgson had shown enough initiative to ask his supervisor to let him be seconded to CID. But not enough to bring out this wee bottle from his locker. What would Lorimer have done in this youngster’s place? Would he have been too shy to have come forward with such evidence at the original inquiry? Fearing the derision of his more senior officers, perhaps? And which officers in particular? a little voice nudged his thoughts. Was it worth digging into that can of worms as well? Whatever else it might provide, this might well be some tangible evidence in an investigation that had been sadly lacking in such things.

  ‘Thank you, constable. If you would like to put it into an evidence bag it can be sent to forensics. Make sure it goes to the senior forensic officer. And don’t forget to put a date on it, will you?’ Lorimer neither smiled nor showed any sort of annoyance that this particular piece of evidence had been sidelined. Lorimer’s matter-of-fact manner took the young man by surprise as he stood and mumbled his thanks.

  ‘Don’t mention it, Dodgson. Perhaps I’ll be thanking you before the week is out,’ Lorimer told him, eliciting a grin of relief on the constable’s boyish face.

  Alone once more, Lorimer pondered that little scene. He must have gained this lad’s confidence and that was hugely heartening at this stage of the proceedings. But was it also indicative of some wariness on the part of youngsters like Dodgson in their relations with more senior officers? To be afraid to come forward with evidence like that from a scene of a crime showed either the lad’s own inadequacy or a reluctance on the part of some of the others in the team to listen to their younger colleagues. Fresh out of college they might be, but such officers were often more clued up in the latest techniques and were eager to tick all the relevant boxes. It was the same with young doctors, Lorimer thought. They soaked up all the information necessary during their medical studies, much of it cutting-edge stuff that older practitioners might have no time to read up on.

  Thinking of this, his mind turned for a moment to his mother-in-law. What had her second day in the Southern General brought for her?

  Mrs Finlay felt the chill from an open doorway as she was wheeled along, a single cellular blanket over her thin nightdress. She couldn’t see the orderly who was pushing her bed along and so it seemed as if she were being propelled like some sort of strange shuttle through the brightly lit hospital corridor. They stopped by a lift and she waited, knowing that there was a figure behind her, scanning the lights to see when the doors would sigh open, but he didn’t seem to want to communicate with her and she was too afraid of what would come out if she attempted to speak. She was just another job to the orderly, that was all; another live body to be shunted into its rightful place. The lift gave a twang as it opened and she felt the bed being rolled into the square space. In a matter of minutes they were out again and moving forward towards another corridor.

  Just as she had expected, they stopped at the nurses’ station and the man came forward to hand over her bags to the staff nurse behind the desk.

  ‘Ward fifty-six, Jim,’ the nurse told the orderly. ‘Right, Mrs Finlay, we’ll have you tucked up again in no time,’ she added, turning a smile on to the patient. She was a small plump girl, thought Alice Finlay, the sort you’d pass in the supermarket and never give another glance. But here, in her own world, the nurse had something about her that made Alice ponder. Was it that quality of caring in her tone? Or the way she gently touched the back of Alice’s hand? It was not a gesture that was over-familiar, more a small caress to reassure the older woman.

  The noise hit Alice as soon as they passed through the swing doors: t
he sound of a television set blaring out above a babble of voices. Passing one patient after another, their aged faces turned towards her with a semblance of curiosity, Alice could see that she had been taken into what was surely a geriatric ward. One old lady whose back was bent from some spinal disorder, her mouth hanging open slackly, stared at Alice as though there was nothing much going on behind her eyes.

  Dear God, she breathed silently, listening to the racket within the ward. What have I come to?

  For a few minutes she had the privacy of curtains around her bed, screening her off from prying eyes as the same kind nurse took her temperature and blood pressure, then busied herself putting things into a bedside locker. But once these matters were attended to, the curtains were whisked back and Alice found herself looking out into a room full of women whose faces were turned to see this newcomer in their midst.

  She did the only thing that she could think of to separate herself from these old women: she closed her eyes, tightly, feigning a sleep that she suddenly and fervently desired.

  Maggie closed the book on her desk as soon as the final bell rang then marched swiftly to the door to let out her Second years. One or two of them dawdled as they left, grinning at her in such a friendly manner that she didn’t have the heart to shoo them out into the corridor. But if she were to make it to the hospital tonight, she would have to hurry. The parking was murder and she had to figure out how long it was going to take so she would be there in time for the ward door opening. The phone call at the end of lunchtime had at least let her know what ward Mum was in now, she told herself, speeding down the stairs towards the main door. Comfortable, the voice on the other end had told her when she’d asked how her mum was feeling today. Maggie had bit her lip at that. It was like the kids saying Fine to their parents at home whenever they were asked how school had been that day: the sort of response that really told her nothing at all. She wanted to know more, much much more. Like what was going to happen to her mum. Would she recover from the stroke? What sort of remedial help would she have and, if they were honest, would she be able to cope on her own once discharged from hospital? Settling herself into the driver’s seat, Maggie turned on the ignition and headed for home, pondering what the future might hold for her. Would she have to give up her job to look after her mum? Or would the social services provide a carer of some sort? Suddenly Maggie realised how hazy she was on such details despite the topic of conversation coming up from time to time among her colleagues in the staffroom.

  Maggie’s mum had always been the sort of strong, dependable person who’d laughed off illness and the knocks she’d had throughout her own life. Losing Maggie’s dad so soon after his retirement had been a blow but she’d soldiered on, shrugging off the state of widowhood since it was something that happened to so many older women, after all. But this was different. Seeing her so helpless in that hospital room had made Maggie realise for the first time just how vulnerable her mother was.

  Almost seventy, Mrs Finlay was admittedly a bit overweight but she’d never smoked and only took a wee glass of sherry before dinner sometimes. And it wasn’t an illness that had any sort of history in their family as far as Maggie knew.

  A car horn right behind her made Maggie see that she had almost overshot a red light. She braked swiftly, cursing herself for paying so little attention to the road ahead; wouldn’t be much use to her mum if she had an accident. Maggie Lorimer handled the rest of the journey with care, trying hard to keep her mind off what lay ahead at the seven o’clock visiting time. By five-fifteen, just as the traffic was building up to its usual stream of madness, she was able to cut off the motorway on to a slip road and head towards the supermarket. There was a list of things she needed to buy if they were to eat anything this week and she wanted some nice stuff to take into her mum, maybe one of these chocolate éclairs that she liked so much. Or was that such a good idea? Would the nurses have her on a diet now to help her lose weight? Maybe a bunch of grapes would be better after all.

  ‘It was horrible,’ Maggie told Lorimer some hours later. ‘The place is like a noisy zoo. And she looked so wee and frail under the bedclothes, not like herself at all. Not even as good as I thought she was yesterday.’

  ‘Can’t you ask someone to let her have a room to herself?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘I suppose I should have thought about it. After all, you know what Mum’s always fond of saying: If you don’t ask, you don’t get. I’ll go earlier tomorrow and see if I can speak to the sister in charge of that ward. But, really, all I want is to get her out of that place.’

  ‘Is it really so bad? I mean, do you think there are any grounds for a complaint?’

  Maggie shook her head. She was clasping a hot toddy that her husband had put into her hand, insisting that she needed to drink it after coming in shivering with cold and anxiety. ‘No, they’re all nice nurses. Treat the patients kindly and I’m sure Mum’s receiving adequate medical attention. But it’s that telly blaring out and the old women wandering around the ward like wee lost souls. It’s no place for a sick person to rest and recover,’ Maggie insisted.

  ‘Can’t promise anything, but I will do my best to come with you tomorrow,’ Lorimer told her, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving her the cuddle she needed.

  ‘How was your day today?’ Maggie asked, suddenly guilty that she hadn’t yet enquired.

  ‘Fine,’ Lorimer said, not seeing his wife’s rueful grin at the reply.

  But, had he known it, this was the last word he would have applied to the days to come.

  CHAPTER 13

  So, Detective Superintendent Lorimer was reopening the case. Just how good was he? And what would happen to the derelict site that had once been the handsome and much-envied home of Sir Ian and Lady Jackson of Kilmacolm?

  Promises had been made. Promises to leave well alone and let the dead rest in peace, that well-worn phrase that was a catch-all for doing damn all about a cold case. Not that this one was more than slightly lukewarm. There were certainly no embers smouldering on the blackened ground around the wrecked house.

  Overtures had been made to allow for a funeral to take place. But that hadn’t happened and the sense of things being in limbo had been overtaken now by this new turn of events. I’d made it my business to know about such things, not just from a sense of curiosity but from a sense of self-preservation.

  It would be worth my while to find out a bit about this police officer from Glasgow. To see what he was capable of doing. And to see if he posed any particular threat to my own well-being, I thought as I pushed the pedal hard and cycled down the path, away from the fluttering rags of police tape.

  CHAPTER 14

  Rhoda Martin slammed her locker shut. Things weren’t the same now that this Detective Superintendent had invaded their territory. By rights she should have been called up for promotion by now, particularly since Colin Ray’s abrupt retirement from the Force. And Katie Clark’s link with the tall officer who’d given her that gimlet stare was even more annoying. She’d hoped to have Lorimer more to herself, to be able to talk to him about the shambles of the case and how the way forward could be, as she saw it. Damn it, she’d spent hours of her own time making notes about how a review might be organised. But did he want her opinion? Did he hell! She was stuck with being allocator and working with all the actions from other folks’ statements and the forensic reports, such as they were. And hadn’t she tried her best to make sure this case was closed? Couldn’t they all just leave it alone? She’d known the Jacksons, she’d told Lorimer eventually. Serena and Daniel were people she’d grown up with. Okay, so she hadn’t mentioned any of that to DCI Ray. So what? Serena was her friend, she told herself. Rhoda didn’t want to upset her, did she? But had giving him that snippet of information made any difference to this cop from Glasgow?

  The DI smoothed down an invisible crease on her dark skirt, shrugged on her jacket and turned to examine herself in the mirror. What she saw must have pleased her because a s
udden smile appeared, transforming the discontented expression into a very attractive face. Her blonde hair was newly washed and straightened and she took it up in two handfuls, experimenting whether or not to pile it into a clip at the back of her head. Serena had looked good like that in magazine pictures. Rhoda let it go instead, watching as it tumbled around her shoulders. She had put on makeup before leaving home, carefully applying foundation and blusher to bring out her slanting cheekbones. Her green eyes were enhanced by smoky shadow and layers of waterproof mascara and now she rummaged in her bag for the little pot of lip gloss that always seemed to lose itself in the deepest corners.

  Satisfied, Rhoda snapped the bag shut and gave her reflection a grin. Maybe it was time to let Detective Superintendent Lorimer know who really counted around here. They hadn’t really got off on the right foot, had they? He seemed to be one cool guy, but she hadn’t yet met any officer who was totally immune to her charms, should she choose to turn them on.