The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  Alistair Wilson stood at the counter, the black tie in his hands. Marks and Spencer had been the best bet, he thought. Any of those other fancy places would have cost a bomb down here. It had not been his intention to stay on for the funeral after his round of interviews with Gilmartin’s friends and colleagues, but Lorimer had insisted.

  ‘We’ll travel back together and you can fill me in on whatever’s come up,’ he’d told the acting DI. Wilson had agreed, then telephoned Betty to explain why he would be staying in the capital for another day and night.

  London was hot for May. More like real summertime weather, a bit humid and sticky by late afternoon, the temperature rising far above the normal for this time of year, and well above anything he would expect back home in Scotland. As Wilson stepped out into the hot street with its stop-go traffic inching along, he sighed longingly for a West Coast breeze. His eyes craned along the line of cars, looking out for a black cab. That was one thing about London: there were always plenty of taxis. In less than a minute he had spotted one with its orange light blazing, given the cabby his destination and settled down to unwrap the tie.

  Odd time to have a funeral, he’d told Lorimer. Five o’clock in the afternoon? But his senior officer had not given any reply to that.

  The funeral cars would wind their way up this path, thought Lorimer as he walked up the slope towards the burial ground. He had not attended the church service, a notice in The Times informing the public that it was for family members only. Reaching the brow of the hill, he turned and looked back at the church, its grey spire and dark slate roof beneath him. How many mourners had gathered to comfort Vivien Gilmartin? he wondered. Her sister and her family from Canada, perhaps? She had told him that both their parents, like his, were dead. But maybe there were Fox cousins somewhere and a number of Gilmartins setting off in cars to make their way up here to the open grave where Charles Gilmartin was to be laid to rest.

  It was a peaceful place to end life’s last journey, Lorimer decided, gazing around. There were no dark yews here, but a small copse of silver birches screened the back of the cemetery from the city beyond. Many of the graves were old and moss-covered, some leaning askew, battered by time and storms. In the distance he could see the gravediggers, one standing hand on his spade, the faint line of cigarette smoke barely discernible. The drone of a plane heading for one of the London airports made him look up; the silver-bodied craft shone like a strange fish in a sea of halcyon blue. It was still warm and Lorimer wished now that he had not worn this dark raincoat over his best suit. But it had been pouring when he had left the house early this morning and he had grabbed it on the way out, overnight bag in hand. Here, high above the city, the air was fresher than it had been as he had emerged from Euston, plunging into the traffic fumes and rancid smells of grease from the snack bars.

  His gaze fell on a figure approaching, labouring a little as he climbed the steep path towards him. He smiled, recognising the man’s familiar walk.

  ‘Whew, thought I’d never make it up that hill,’ Wilson said, puffing as he came to a halt. ‘Shouldn’t have paid the taxi off at the gates.’

  ‘You’re out of condition,’ Lorimer teased. ‘Need to send you out on foot patrol with that daughter of yours.’

  ‘Aye, well. Maybe I need to think about losing a bit of weight. Too many of Betty’s cakes,’ groaned Wilson, patting the stomach that bulged above his belt.

  ‘Nobody here yet, then,’ he added, turning to look down the hill at the view where Lorimer had been gazing.

  ‘Still in church,’ Lorimer said. ‘Oh, there’s a car coming up now. Let’s walk over a bit. Don’t want to be hanging around too close to the action.’

  The two men strolled away from the edge of the path, making for a spot near enough the grave to hear the service but not so close as to be mistaken for family friends.

  The cars began to arrive, slowly snaking up the hill and parking in a crescent below this level of the burial ground. It did not surprise the detective superintendent to see such crowds of dark-clad men and women emerging into the sunlight; Charles Gilmartin had been a well-known figure in theatrical circles and there would be many here from that world to pay their last respects.

  There were taxis too, disgorging the mourners one by one then heading back along the path and disappearing over the crest of the hill. Soon the grassy slopes were full of people standing around, casting their eyes towards the ribbon of pathway, waiting for the arrival of the hearse. Most people seemed to have gravitated towards friends or acquaintances, but there was one elderly lady standing on her own, clutching a large handbag with both hands, her felt hat jammed on top of tight white curls that looked newly permed. She appeared lost amongst the smartly dressed men and women, some of whose faces Lorimer recognised from television but whose names he had forgotten. As he watched, he could see her hand searching inside the cavernous bag to find a small, lace-trimmed handkerchief. After blowing her nose, the old lady wiped a hand across her eyes, the crumpled hanky stuffed into her coat pocket.

  Nudging Wilson, Lorimer tilted his head, indicating the woman, and began to walk towards her.

  ‘Couldn’t help seeing you were on your own, ma’am,’ he began. ‘Do you mind if we stand with you?’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman looked up at him. ‘You must be one of Mrs Gilly’s friends from Scotland.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lorimer replied. ‘We go way back,’ he said, glancing at Wilson as though to include him in the reply.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘’Specially seeing that sister of hers didn’t make it over from Canada after all. Not a lot of folks here from Mrs Gilly’s side. Mind you,’ she leaned in towards them, one hand against her mouth as though to impart a confidence, ‘s’pose I’m really from both sides, ain’t I?’ She stuck out one gloved hand. ‘Mrs Porter, bin cleaning for the Gillys for years, I ’ave. How d’ye do?’

  Lorimer and Wilson shook her hand in turn, murmuring their names but not their respective ranks within Police Scotland.

  Just then a silence fell as everyone turned to see the big funeral cars arrive and park near the graveside. Lorimer stood beside the little cleaner, watching as she pulled another handkerchief from her bag to dab at her eyes. Then he held his breath as a slim figure emerged from the large silvery-grey Daimler.

  Vivien was not alone, a younger man in a dark suit by her side, his hand slipped under the crook of her elbow, ushering her towards the grave, a priest following them at a respectful distance.

  ‘That’s Martin Goodfellow, Gilmartin’s assistant,’ Wilson whispered. ‘Saw him yesterday. Tell you about it later,’ he said quietly, a meaningful glance catching the detective superintendent’s eyes.

  As the pallbearers carried the coffin from the hearse, the crowd moved slowly forward, feet silent on the cropped turf, no jostling for position, most keeping a discreet distance from the edge of the open grave.

  At first Lorimer heard the priest’s words as a background monotone, so intent was he on looking at Vivien Gilmartin. The widow’s face was partly hidden beneath a black veil attached to her hat, red hair tamed into a simple knot, emphasising that long, slender neck. She stood, head bowed, as the priest intoned the familiar words: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. What was she thinking? Lorimer wondered. Was she remembering better times with her husband? Hoping that he was dwelling in the sort of afterlife that the man of God asserted was waiting for the deceased? Or was she simply numb, seeing the reality of death here in this place, the scent of newly mown grass and singing birds somehow at odds with the darkness engulfing her.

  She was more of a stranger to him than ever, he realised. London was her home, her real home, this huge city with all these people around who were, he supposed, her friends. Was he here because of an earlier friendship? First love was the sweetest, she had told him that night as they had sat together on the playground bench. But Lorimer knew he would not have made the journey south just to give this woman moral support. He was here, he remin
ded himself, because the man being lowered into the ground had been murdered. And it was the job of his fellow officers to find out who had committed that crime.

  ‘Can we get you a taxi, Mrs Porter?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Oh, thanks, dearie. Will we travel all together then?’ the old lady asked brightly. Now that the service was over and everyone was making their way back along the path, she seemed a lot less tearful.

  Vivien had not spoken individually to the mourners; it fell to the priest to invite them back to a city hotel for a refreshment, as he put it. She had turned away, head bowed, acknowledging no one before slipping back into the big car.

  The old lady tucked her hand into Lorimer’s arm as the three made their way back down to the gates of the cemetery and the busy main road.

  ‘Nice place, this,’ she began. ‘My Albert’s buried just along there.’ She pointed with one gloved finger at a row of gravestones curving on a lower terrace. ‘Been dead and gone these twenty-eight years, ’e ’as,’ she continued. ‘Bad ’eart. Ran in the family.’ She nodded. ‘Lovely wake we had, best night in years. Pity ’e ’ad to miss it,’ she chuckled.

  Lorimer stifled a laugh. He had taken a sudden liking to this garrulous old lady.

  ‘You don’t still clean for Vivien, I suppose?’

  ‘Mrs Gilly? Course I do, dearie! What would she do without old Porter, eh? And I can always do with the cash, can’t I? Not so easy making do with the pension these days, eh?’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Always paid me, even when they were away. Got a lot done when they were up in Glasgow. Bad place, that!’ she added with a scowl. ‘Poor man, dying in his bed. Poisoned!’ she added darkly. ‘Did you know that, dearie?’

  They were saved from replying by Wilson stepping out into the road, hand raised to hail a cab.

  ‘Oh, that’s better. Fair takes it out of these old legs of mine, that slope does. Always worse coming down than going up, don’t you find?’ Mrs Porter declared, settling back in her seat.

  ‘Now then, tell me all about yourselves, dearies. Which part of Scotland do you both come from?’

  Lorimer gave a discreet nod to Wilson, who launched into a glowing description of his home in West Kilbride and the views across the water. Mrs Porter nodded politely, and when Wilson paused, Lorimer broke in.

  ‘What about yourself, Mrs Porter. Known the Gilmartins long, have you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The old lady smiled. ‘Knew him when he was a boy, I did. Cleaned for his mother when they lived in that big house of theirs in Kensington.’ Her face fell suddenly. ‘Poor old soul. Was in a nursing home in her latter days, she was. Left everything to Charles, you know,’ she confided, leaning towards the police officers as though to keep a secret. ‘A fortune. Old man Gilmartin made millions in that cigarette factory of his back in the fifties. Course, everyone smoked then, didn’t they? All lung cancer and outside the pubs nowadays, ain’t it?’

  ‘I suppose Mrs Gilmartin inherits his estate?’ Lorimer asked, his tone as diffident as he could make it.

  ‘Don’t know about that, dearie. Charles had put a lot o’ money into them theatricals, hadn’t he? But yes, she’ll get what’s left over. Tidy bit, I shouldn’t wonder, seeing as they had no kids.’ She sniffed, then looked at the two policemen.

  ‘You got kids, dearie?’

  Once more Wilson came to Lorimer’s rescue, giving an account of Kirsty’s childhood and entry to the hospitality management course at university. He made no mention, however, of her dropping out of the course and joining Police Scotland.

  ‘Good fer her!’ Mrs Porter declared. ‘Always stand a gel in good stead when she gets wed, eh?’ She dropped a wink, then looked out of the window as the taxi slowed down and stopped outside the entrance to one of London’s most famous hotels. ‘Oh my, our Vivi’s pushin’ the boat out!’ the old woman said, a smile of satisfaction on her plump face as she allowed a liveried doorman to help her out of the cab.

  Lorimer followed Wilson and the old lady into the foyer of the hotel, casting his eyes around in appreciation. The expanse of marble floor might have given the place a feeling of chilliness, but that was offset by the magnificent gold and green drapes held back at each long window by tasselled cords, the sparkle of crystals from the many chandeliers above their heads and several enormous arrangements of flowers spilling exotic blooms over the lips of their urns. There had been a notice on a board in the hotel foyer discreetly informing visitors to the hotel (in gold lettering) where the Gilmartin wake would take place, but that really wasn’t needed, thought Lorimer as they walked in behind a crowd of black-clad figures. Some of the women, he noticed, had opted for a clutch of feathers pinned artfully to their hair; others wore more conventional hats, but each of them appeared effortlessly stylish, apart from the homely little woman who now hovered uncertainly by his side.

  ‘Never bin in this place afore, have you, dearie?’ she asked.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘My wife would like it, though,’ he added.

  ‘She young and good-lookin’ like you, then?’ Mrs Porter grinned.

  Lorimer smiled. ‘Maggie’s lovely,’ he said. ‘She’s a school teacher,’ he added. ‘All the kids love her.’

  Mrs Porter nodded, satisfied to have drawn out a snippet of information from the tall man at her side who had remained so quiet on the taxi journey to the hotel.

  There were waiters with an assortment of drinks as they passed into a high-ceilinged room, and young waitresses clad in dark green, offering glass-topped trays of canapés.

  ‘None of your sandwiches and sausage rolls here, then,’ Wilson whispered to his boss. ‘Must be costing her a bomb.’

  Lorimer nodded silently, looking around at the crowd of mourners and listening to the sound of voices rising as more and more people arrived. It was, he decided, more like a posh reception before a gala dinner than any wake he had ever attended.

  ‘She done ’im proud, she ’as, I’ll say that fer ’er,’ Mrs Porter said grudgingly, one hand balancing a glass of bubbly, the other holding an empty cocktail stick, the large handbag now hooked across her arm. ‘That’s what they’ll all remember, won’t they? Gave ’im a right good send-off, they’ll say.’ She beamed with satisfaction as she picked up a concoction of something red and yellow from the tray of a passing waitress. ‘Don’t know what I’m eating, but it ain’t half good!’

  The old lady stopped and looked behind her as if some sound had caught her attention, but in truth it was simply the noise level decreasing as people stopped talking and heads turned to watch Vivien Gilmartin enter the room.

  She was alone now, and both the funeral hat and the pinned-back hairstyle had been discarded, the flame-coloured hair catching the light as Vivien walked towards them.

  ‘Mrs Porter, how kind of you to come.’ She took the old lady’s hands in hers as she bent to kiss her on each cheek. ‘And I see you have already met my oldest and dearest friend,’ she added, smiling at Lorimer for a brief moment. ‘Don’t go away too soon,’ she whispered to him. ‘I must do my widow’s duties, but I want to talk to you.’ There was a flash of something in her green eyes as she spoke, then she was moving away from them, reaching out to shake hands, murmuring how kind to other people, leaving Lorimer to wonder just what it was that she wanted to tell him.

  By the time Vivien returned, most of the mourners had drifted away; even Mrs Porter, who had commandeered Wilson to find her a taxi.

  ‘Thank God that’s over!’ Vivien gave a harsh little laugh as she sat down next to Lorimer.

  ‘Were you dreading it?’ he asked, looking at the woman’s pale face. Unusually, there were twin spots of colour marking those high cheekbones. The artifice of a make-up palette? Or a few drinks too many? he wondered.

  ‘I am so glad you are still here, William,’ she whispered, laying a slim hand on top of his, letting it linger there. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  He looked down at her, seeing the plea in those green eyes.

  ‘Ask awa
y, Foxy,’ he said, his tone deliberately light.

  She moved a little closer.

  ‘Will you come back with me tonight? Stay with me?’ she asked, her voice husky with emotion. ‘I can’t bear to be alone in that house . . .’ she added, her grip on his hand tightening as the fingers sought his own.

  For a moment Lorimer wanted to take her chin and tilt it upwards, kiss away the tears that threatened to fall, but any comfort he could offer would be like the sort he gave to little Abby Brightman, he realised, not the kind of solace that this passionate woman was seeking.

  ‘My train leaves tonight,’ he told her, gently easing his hand from hers. ‘Alistair and I are booked on the sleeper.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes were wide with surprise. ‘I thought we . . .’ She shook her head and looked down at her hands. ‘Never mind. It was just a thought,’ she added, smiling a brittle smile, then rising as a couple came towards them.

  ‘Darlings,’ she gushed. ‘So good of you to be here for me. Give me a ring, Ruby. Next week?’

  Then she was gone, no backward glance for the tall man who had risen to his feet. He watched as she left, linking her arm with that of another man, one more stranger to the Glasgow policeman, her slim figure disappearing out of sight.

  Lorimer was relieved to see that they had the compartment to themselves. Darkness had fallen as the train pulled out of the station, the two policemen settling themselves down for the long night ahead.

  ‘Right.’ Wilson rubbed his hands together. ‘Now I can fill you in on what’s been happening down here. May as well give you the gen before I have to write the report.’

  Lorimer nodded. He had been quiet on the taxi ride to the station, the memory of Vivien Gilmartin’s proposition still warm in his ears. Had she really said that? Only hours after laying her husband to rest? Who was this woman, really? And what resemblance did she bear to the girl he’d once known and loved?