Five Ways to Kill a Man Read online

  ‘Jackson Tannock Technology Systems. What do we know about them?’ Lorimer asked. The faces of his team regarded him with some interest as he looked at them one by one. Young Dodgson seemed more at ease now and the older DS, Robert Wainwright, had put a hand to his chin as if seriously considering an answer to this question. But it was DI Martin who gave the first response.

  ‘One of the biggest employers in the area,’ she began, a smile on her face that made Lorimer look at her a second time. Had she changed her appearance today? Something was different, but he was at a loss to see just what that was. Or was it that softer quality in her voice? Narrowing his eyes, Lorimer gave the woman a little nod of encouragement.

  ‘Hugh Tannock is the whiz-kid of the outfit,’ Martin went on. ‘Jackson had the money and together they founded the company about five years ago. Floated it on the stock exchange and somehow managed to weather the credit crunch. There were some redundancies but nothing too dramatic.’

  ‘Nobody so pissed off that they’d harbour a grudge for that length of time and set fire to Jackson’s home,’ Wainwright added.

  ‘And no malcontents within the firm more recently?’ Lorimer asked.

  His question was met by an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Not something that seems to have been a part of the initial investigation, then?’ he added, knowing that the question was simply rhetorical. ‘Well, that’s an area I believe to be worth examining, ’ he told them, once more attempting to keep any trace of criticism from his voice.

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’ DI Martin was looking his way, her face quite serious. Her head was tilted to one side as if listening to Lorimer was the most important thing in her life. For some reason it only made him distrust her more, and he experienced a moment of annoyance at himself for this irrational thought.

  ‘Forensics suggest that the fire was started in the kitchen area: a burning chip pan. But there were traces of accelerant closer to the main entrance outside the house and so the case was then believed to be one of wilful fire-raising. Okay so far?’

  The faces concentrated on the DCI’s all nodded in agreement.

  ‘Thanks to Constable Dodgson we may have a new piece of evidence. He has kept fumes from a site close to the main source of the fire and these are now being tested. If we find a different type of accelerant from the one already identified, then perhaps this investigation will take a new and interesting turn. You all follow what I’m saying? The source of this accelerant would also suggest that whoever began the fire had some way of gaining entry into the house itself. Late at night.’

  ‘Are you saying this was a burglary gone wrong?’ Katie Clark asked, her face screwed up in puzzlement.

  ‘Course not,’ DI Martin immediately retorted. ‘It was definitely a case of wilful fire-raising!’ Then, perhaps realising that she’d sounded somewhat disdainful, she turned a sweet smile towards Lorimer. ‘That’s right, sir, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘There’s no question in anyone’s mind: that fire was started deliberately. The fire officers’ and forensic boys’ reports show specific patterns around the windows in both the kitchen and upper bedroom where the fire was seeking oxygen, so we have some evidence that there were two points of origin. What we have to find is not only how it was begun but why anybody would want to carry out a savage attack like that. We don’t always begin with motive in an investigation, as you all know. But here we should look at anybody who had a reason to hold a grudge against Sir Ian Jackson. Or,’ he added, more quietly, glancing at them all to see their reaction, ‘his wife.’

  He let the murmurs break out among them for a few moments at this suggestion. Investigating Lady Jackson’s background was something that had never occurred to Colin Ray or any one of the original team. But Lorimer was used to looking at cases from unusual angles. And here, with a case to review, he’d turn the damn thing upside down and inside out to see what he could find.

  ‘The business aspect is the most obvious, I’ll grant you,’ he continued. ‘But what needs to be done is a thorough examination of every bit of the Jacksons’ personal lives.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The file on their background is sadly lacking in content. Perhaps I could have someone volunteer to cover the initial administration of that?’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir.’ Kate Clark’s hand was up and he had the instant impression of a chubby schoolgirl trying to please her teacher. But she was nobody’s fool and this action would probably suit the pregnant woman better than a lot of slogging around the district. And her colleagues would surely realise this as her motivation, Lorimer thought, though he did not fail to see the flash of irritation crossing DI Martin’s pretty face.

  ‘Thanks, DC Clark. And someone else to take over any out-of-office work?’

  DS Wainwright raised a hand in his direction.

  ‘Right. And we’ll need someone to go over the fire service’s reports again.’ He saw another hand raised and nodded his acceptance.

  ‘I’m going to see Hugh Tannock myself,’ he told them. ‘Apart from anything else, I think he has the right to know that the case is being reviewed.’ And, he might have added, it would be interesting to see just how the death of Jackson had affected the man. He had lost the co-founder of their business, after all and nobody from the original investigation had noted the man’s reaction in any of the reports.

  Jackson Tannock Technologies was situated high above the town, overlooking the sweep of Greenock harbour and the rows of houses that hugged the hillside. As he drove the Lexus up the increasingly steep gradient, Lorimer saw a familiar landmark jutting out of the earth; the Free French Cross, a symbol from World War Two. He hesitated for only a fraction then swung the big car across the road into the parking area and got out.

  It was a view that never failed to impress, even on this grey, murky day. Images of the celebrated landmark upon calendars and tourist guides would always show the stark white cross of Lorraine, its stem firmly rooted into an anchor, against improbably blue waters and a cloudless sky. But even today the monument towering over that grand expanse could move him. Slate-grey clouds lowered right down to the horizon’s rim, obscuring the hills of Tighnabruaich and beyond, but below him Lorimer could see MacBrayne’s car ferry ploughing over the waters like a wee toy boat. Few other craft had sought the sheltering arms of the harbour and from this distance the fluorescent marker buoys resembled a handful of orange confetti scattered over the surface of the water.

  Up here it was quiet, almost lonely, reminding Lorimer what it might have been like to have stood on the bridge of one of these French boats sailing through banks of mist and out into the dangerous waters of the Atlantic. And it was here, at the tail of the bank, that other huge liners had turned from the river to head out to sea, their destination often the great port of New York.

  He turned away from the view and examined the inscriptions on the monument. To the roadside, the words proclaimed:

  ‘This memorial was designed and erected by the officers and men of the French naval base at Greenock with the help of subscriptions raised among the crews of the Free French naval forces.’

  Many had gone out into the grey ocean never to return; their sacrifice at the Battle of the Atlantic had been remembered here ever since. But it was not just the memory of sailors lost in the battle that this cross represented. Walking back to the seaward side, Lorimer read the French inscription etched into the rock surface.

  A La memoire

  du capitaine de frigate Biaison

  des officeurs et de l’equipage

  du sous-marin ‘Surcoup’

  perdu dans l’Atlantique

  Fevrier

  He thought of the captain and officers of the frigate, Biaison, lost in the Atlantic that February then grimaced. What unimaginable horror had the submarine’s crew endured in that claustrophobic tube as the Surcoup plummeted to the depths of the ocean?

  Turning back to look out across the expanse of land that lay between hill and seashore, Lorim
er noticed the winter grasses struggling for survival against swathes of rusting bracken. It was cold up here, making him rub his hands together, despite the wind having dropped. The ground seemed gripped still by the iron fist of winter. Letting his gaze wander, Lorimer spied a gorse bush clinging to the edge of the cliff, its few sulphur yellow flowers a defiant reminder that life still continued in every season. And there was life everywhere, from the flat-roofed secondary school on a plateau to his left to the rank upon rank of houses marching down towards the shore, bungalows up here giving way to grey tenements down in the heart of the town. Below him lay the curve of Battery Park, its bright red swings and roundabouts deserted.

  It was time to go. Hugh Tannock was expecting him. Yet paying homage here for those few minutes made the Detective Superintendent feel a certain stirring in his blood. There had been sacrifices made by brave men. And somehow the thought of their unswerving duty gave him strength.

  Jackson Tannock Technologies lay hidden from prying eyes in a hollow of land near Lyle Hill, its buildings screened behind a plantation of pine and birch trees. If the architect had designed the offices to impress a newcomer then he had succeeded. The white curving walls were an obvious imitation of a ship, the lines to one side forming a bow. Above the main entrance were banks of glass windows evoking the impression of decks on an ocean-going liner. And if the beholder was still uncertain of the visual metaphor, a line of red tiles drew the eye upwards to the scarlet chimney masquerading as a funnel. This building, he had read somewhere, was a homage to the Art Deco buildings of a century before.

  The whole thing might have appeared absurd, but it didn’t. Instead it showed the sort of graceful elegance that comes with good design, and that sense of solid permanence - was that meant to evoke a subliminal notion of trustworthiness and integrity? Was it Lorimer’s early training as an art historian that made him see such things so dispassionately? he wondered. Or had the years of policing turned him into a hard-bitten cynic, refusing to accept the message that this building and its creators were trying to convey?

  Tannock had been expecting him but Lorimer hadn’t thought the man himself would come to meet him in reception. Looking upwards at an open-plan staircase, he saw a man hurrying down, holding the ends of his jacket around him as if self-conscious of that corpulent figure.

  ‘Hugh Tannock. Good to meet you, Superintendent.’

  Lorimer felt a firm hand in his and saw that Tannock was looking up at him with an expression that was at once warm and curious. There was something about this short, middle-aged fellow that Lorimer immediately liked. He had no difficulty holding the Detective Superintendent’s gaze and the smile on that face made his eyes crinkle up at the corners, giving him the look of a benign and friendly priest. For a second Lorimer had a vision of Tannock clad in a brown habit, a simple cord tied around his rotund frame.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs, shall we?’ Tannock suggested, already ushering Lorimer back to the pine and steel structure that spiralled upwards. ‘I always like to show off the view from the top,’ he twinkled, as if confiding some secret to the tall policeman.

  The room they entered had one wall completely made of glass, from which Lorimer could see the same view that he had so recently enjoyed from the Free French Cross.

  ‘Not the sort of thing one can fail to boast about, is it?’ Tannock sighed, rubbing his chubby hands as he stood looking over the expanse of hillside and water, glancing back at Lorimer to see what effect the magnificent vista might have on the policeman.

  ‘Must keep folk off their work,’ he murmured, giving the man a small courteous smile, but hoping to remind him that he, at any rate, was here on official business.

  ‘Or inspire them?’ Tannock suggested. ‘Shall we have some coffee while we talk about poor Ian, Superintendent?’

  The man’s sudden change of subject showed he had judged the Detective Superintendent’s mood to perfection. He was no fool, whatever else he was, thought Lorimer, adding respect to that instinctive liking for the man.

  Directing them to a pair of cream-coloured sofas placed so that they could look out over the river, Tannock waited a moment until his visitor was seated then pulled out a BlackBerry from his inside pocket.

  ‘We’re ready for coffee now, Mattie, thanks,’ he said then turned to Lorimer, ‘Unless you’d prefer tea?’

  Lorimer assured him that coffee would be fine then watched as Tannock pulled his trouser legs up a little to prevent them from creasing, before sinking back into the squashy sofa opposite. It was a gesture at once old-fashioned and effete and made Lorimer suddenly recall the men from the war years who had been tutored in those same small, decorous habits.

  ‘You explained on the telephone that you wanted to talk to me about Ian’s death, Superintendent,’ Tannock began. ‘Has anything new come to light?’

  His enquiry was at once grave and hopeful, Lorimer thought.

  ‘The previous Senior Investigating Officer in charge has retired, sir, and I have been asked to review the case.’

  Tannock frowned. ‘Review? Doesn’t that suggest some degree of inefficiency on the part of this officer and his team?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Mr Tannock,’ Lorimer replied, crossing one leg over the other. But he was saved from giving any further detail by the appearance of an elderly woman bearing a tray of coffee and cakes.

  ‘There you are, gentlemen. Shall I leave you to pour, Mr Tannock?’ the woman asked, straightening up and obviously anxious to take her leave. Was she uncomfortable in the presence of the police? Lorimer wondered. It didn’t have to be a sign of a guilty conscience, simply an aversion to the sort of seriousness that warranted his presence there.

  ‘No, thank you, Mattie. That’s fine,’ Tannock assured her.

  ‘So what do you make of the whole sorry business, Superintendent?’ Tannock continued once the woman had left them.

  ‘I haven’t had time as yet to evaluate all that the primary reports showed, sir. But I would be grateful for anything you could tell me about the business here and Sir Ian’s involvement in it.’

  Tannock leaned forward to set his cup down before replying.

  ‘Sir Ian was my business partner. We owned Jackson Tannock Technologies between us.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Ian and Pauline’s shares will be passed on to his son and daughter, naturally. Between them they now hold over thirty percent of the share capital.’ Tannock paused. ‘It will be worth in excess of eight hundred million, I should think. Euros, that is. We always deal in euros nowadays for our market investors.’

  Lorimer swallowed a gulp of hot coffee, trying not to splurt it out in astonishment. Eight hundred million euros. The figure had been spoken as if it were nothing out of the ordinary in a climate of worldwide recession. If he’d been looking for motive in any shape or form, surely he had found it here?

  ‘What’, he paused, the catch in his throat making speech impossible till he swallowed once more, ‘what will they do with that kind of money?’

  Tannock smiled. ‘Daniel is one of our younger directors here. He’s actually in charge of Human Resources, so I believe he will simply leave his money in the firm. For now at any rate,’ he added, nodding in a way that reminded Lorimer of a wise elderly owl.

  ‘He’s thinking of leaving the firm?’ Lorimer asked.

  Tannock smiled thinly. ‘Not if he realises his original ambition, Superintendent.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘To take over from Sir Ian, of course. It was something that Daniel had tried to have agreed by both his father and me. That he would inherit Sir Ian’s place on the Board whenever retirement came.’

  There was something in Tannock’s expression. Scepticism? Was he trying to say that the younger Jackson was greedy for that sort of corporate power?

  Tannock was shaking his head. ‘Ian would never have retired. It wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘He couldn’t abide the thought of endless days of golf. No matt
er how much he enjoyed the odd game. Liked the cut and thrust of business too much.’

  ‘So Daniel had no hope of becoming heir to his father’s position unless he died?’

  Hugh Tannock paled at the implication of Lorimer’s words. ‘That’s not what I meant, Superintendent. There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy ambition and his father respected Daniel’s views. Please don’t think along such lines . . .’ he broke off, squirming in distaste, the idea of patricide quite repugnant to him.

  ‘And the daughter?’

  ‘Ah, Serena.’ Tannock’s smile slipped a little. ‘She’s taken this very hard, I’m afraid. Very hard indeed. Quiet lass at the best of times, you know, but these days she’s . . .’ he stopped then glanced at the Super as if he’d said too much already. ‘Well, let’s just say that a sudden loss like this is extremely difficult to cope with. She’s not been back at work since the fire.’