by Alex Gray
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 without 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.’
Lorimer hesitated. He had to detach himself, think like a policeman, but it was hard, seeing her face so racked with grief.
‘I want you to give me the keys to your flat, Vivien,’ he said. ‘The Fiscal will probably want the police to have another look,’ he added, making his tone as diffident as he could. ‘Is there anything I can bring you back?’
‘Shall I come with you?’ Her face turned up to his, a flash of fear in her green eyes.
‘No. You stay here with Maggie,’ he replied firmly.
‘Maybe some fresh clothes . . .’ Vivien looked down at her hands, then her whole body seemed to quiver with the sob that she could no longer contain.
Lorimer recalled Vivien’s words as he drove back into town. It seemed that all the work on this ambitious project was for nothing now. Gilmartin had prepared so much, his widow had told them, arranging flights for the African actors, making bookings in Edinburgh for a prolonged stay during the Festival. It would all be cancelled now. She had already told Goodfellow he would have to see to that.
The detective frowned. It was the first time Vivien had mentioned the man’s name, and yet she must have been in contact with him on her mobile since arriving back at their house during the wee small hours of Saturday morning. Odd, he told himself. Why hadn’t she spoken about Gilmartin’s business before now? They could have offered the use of their landline for anything she needed.
His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he thought about it. He didn’t really know this woman, did he? Lady Foxy, he’d called her, as though they had been pals for ever. But she had been Mrs Charles Gilmartin for much longer than the few years they had known one another as teenagers at school. Their lives had taken such different paths. Until now, when the sudden death of Charles Gilmartin had brought her glittering London theatrical world and that of a Glasgow detective very close indeed.
Chapter Fourteen
‘That’s the bend in the river, there’s the athletes’ village and there,’ the end of a pencil tapped a small area on the map, ‘is where the opening ceremony will take place.’
Several pairs of eyes looked at the man standing at the centre of the table. He was the sort of person who would pas
s unnoticed in any crowd – short and of slight build, his thinning hair making him look older than he really was; nonetheless he had command of this disparate group of men. His dark eyes roved around each one of the other five intently, seeking assurance that all present in the room were of one mind and one accord.
‘You know our aim, gentlemen.’ The last word was almost a sneer: several of the assembled group had been detained on more than one occasion at Her Majesty’s pleasure. ‘Maximum disruption. Getting our message across in the only way these idiots seem to understand!’ He was glaring at them now, arms folded across his chest as though defying any sort of opposition.
‘We had one hundred per cent success with the Drymen explosive and there has been absolutely no comeback from MI6. Right, Number Five?’
A black-haired man straightened his back as it became clear that the leader’s question was directed towards him. No names were given in these clandestine meetings and at first some of them had sniggered over this, but that had been back at the start of the previous year. Now, each and every one of them understood the need for complete secrecy if they were to pose an effective threat to the success of the Glasgow 2014 Commonwealth Games.
‘Right,’ the dark-haired man agreed.
‘They think it was some daft wee laddies out in the village,’ added the explosives expert, the oldest man in the room.
A small ripple of laughter flowed around the table.
‘All the better for us,’ their leader replied. ‘Now, listen carefully. This is what we are going to do.’
They all leaned forward more closely to look at the map of Glasgow laid out on the table, the afternoon sun slanting directly on to the creases where it had been folded and refolded, silvering the blue line of the River Clyde and the pencil point that was hovering above Parkhead Stadium.
