by Alex Gray
She had crossed her legs and one foot was jigging up and down, Lorimer noticed, a sure sign of agitation.
Then he was sitting beside her, hands folded under his chin, wondering what it was that she wanted to tell him.
‘Did you ever wonder about me at all?’ Vivien began, staring out at the darkness beyond the school buildings, deliberately avoiding his glance. ‘Ever think that first love was the sweetest?’
‘Sometimes,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘But things changed after my mum died.’ He shrugged. ‘And there were lots of other things in my life.’
‘Like your wife?’ She looked his way for a moment and he nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve been lucky. And you?’
Vivien looked away again as she answered. ‘Charles is marvellous,’ she said. ‘The sort of person you only meet once in a lifetime.’
Lorimer’s brow furrowed for a moment. Was he imagining a tinge of bitterness in her voice? And was that sudden shivering simply from the cold night air?
Vivien drew out a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and offered them to Lorimer, who shook his head. He watched as she lit a cigarette with a slim silver lighter then inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in a moment of relief as the nicotine hit her bloodstream. Neither of them had smoked back then, his father’s early death having made the young William Lorimer determined not to acquire the habit. Watching as she flicked the ash from her cigarette, he saw a different Vivien, someone subtly sophisticated, a woman who was probably more at home in one of the many chichi bars and restaurants that London had to offer. With her husband, Charles.
‘Charles Gilmartin,’ Lorimer said suddenly. ‘Of course! I didn’t realise that’s who you were married to! He’s the famous theatre director, isn’t he?’
Vivien smiled her familiar foxy smile.
‘The very one,’ she said. ‘My husband, the famous director.’
‘Then why…?’ Lorimer frowned as the question came unbidden to his lips.
‘Why aren’t I an equally famous actress?’ She shrugged. ‘Didn’t happen for me, did it?’
Lorimer shook his head.
‘Too much competition,’ she said lightly.
‘But you still worked in the theatre?’
‘As Charles’s personal assistant.’ Vivien turned her head away, blowing a pale line of smoke through the dark night air.
‘And that was enough to satisfy you?’ The words were out before he could stop them. It was none of his business, his wiser self reminded him. Yet once upon a time Foxy’s career had been all he could think about.
‘Charles has big plans,’ Vivien said, turning to smile at him. ‘There’s a theatre group arriving from Africa this summer. Doing a UK tour. Taking in the Edinburgh Festival. He’s bankrolling the whole thing,’ she said.
Her speech was clipped, a hard edge to her voice as she spoke. Did she realise just how much he gleaned from the human voice? Or were her words meant to convey a sense of pride in her husband? Somehow he doubted that. Years of experience listening to people made the detective realise that there was something in Gilmartin’s venture causing his wife some pain.
‘Charles thinks he may be mentioned in the next Honours List,’ Vivien added, a brittle smile on her face.
‘A knighthood?’
She nodded and dropped her cigarette, grinding it beneath the toe of her black patent shoe. ‘He’s putting so much behind this whole thing.’ She shrugged. ‘Bound to be noticed in all the right places.’
Lorimer grinned back at her. ‘That would make you Lady Gilmartin, then,’ he chuckled. ‘Lady Foxy,’ he added, catching her eye.
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
Vivien lifted her hand and traced a finger down the left side of his face. Was this an invitation for him to bend across and kiss her?
Then she sighed, gave her head a slight shake and turned away to gather up her handbag.
‘Better get back in,’ she said softly. ‘Smoking break is over.’
The hall was filled with flashing lights from the noisy disco, with dancers gyrating in the confined space making progress back to their table difficult and conversation impossible.
A quick glance at his watch told the detective that he had stayed long enough. Time to go home, he told himself, time to put this evening firmly in the past where it belonged.
‘I’d better go,’ he said, leaning over so that Vivien could hear him.
She nodded silently and there was an expression of sadness in her eyes as she looked up at him.
‘If we do make the Edinburgh Festival, perhaps you would like to come,’ she said. ‘Bring your wife?’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Maggie loves the theatre as it happens.’
‘Do you have a card? I could email you and let you know when the dates are all arranged.’
Lorimer fished out one of his business cards from the top pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.
‘Detective Superintendent William Lorimer,’ Vivien read. She looked up and smiled. ‘Suits you,’ she said. ‘Well done.’
He smiled back, then reached down to flick a lock of her flame-coloured hair ‘Bye bye, Lady Foxy.’
Once outside again, Lorimer gulped the chill night air as he headed for the taxi rank. It hadn’t been too bad, he told himself. He had met up with a few old pals, shaken hands with men and women who were now complete strangers and whetted his curiosity over Foxy.
As the taxi took him the short journey home, the detective replayed their conversation in his head. She wasn’t really happy, he told himself. London and all its glitz and glamour had been less of a dream than the young Vivien Fox had planned. And there was something else: the way she had spoken about her husband had made him wonder if she had found contentment in her marriage the way he had with Maggie.
As the lights of his house loomed closer, Lorimer experienced a rush of gratitude for the life he had. Inside, Maggie would be asleep, warm and waiting for him, Chancer curled up on his side of the bed, no doubt. He paid the driver and walked up the driveway, listening to the taxi’s engine grow quieter as it passed out of the street and headed back towards the city. He thought of Stu Clark and his Australian suntan, a daughter left behind in Scotland after a failed marriage; Eddie still at Glenwood; and Vivien, her fate wrapped up with the famous impresario.
If the school reunion had taught him anything at all, it was that he wouldn’t change his life for any one of theirs, Lorimer told himself as the key turned in the lock.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London was full of little studios to rent, apartment complexes that catered for the traveller who was planning to do rather more than pass through the capital, but it had been much more difficult to find such a place in Glasgow. There was no lack of hotels and Charles had suggested several within the city, but his wife had shaken her head and smiled. There might not be anywhere here that Vivien Gilmartin could call home any more, she’d argued, but she baulked at the idea of staying in some impersonal hotel bedroom as if she were a total stranger to her own city.
Then she had found it: a quiet residential court with flats to let short term. The modern block looked out towards Glasgow Green, tipping its hat to the city across the river, its back door just minutes away from the Citizens Theatre and the once notorious Gorbals. It was perfect, Vivien had insisted, for all of their requirements. A short walk across a nearby bridge took them into the heart of the city, and it was less than fifteen minutes’ taxi ride to her old school on the South Side. Charles could conduct his business with no interruptions from chambermaids or late-night guests while she completed the business of the school reunion, she’d argued. He had hesitated, and she had played her winning hand, offering to stock the rented kitchen with all his favourite food and drink, reminding him of the cost of room service. Charles might have money but he hated splashing it around unnecessarily. Vivien remembered this conversation quite distinctly as she waited for the lift to take her upstairs to the top floor, wh
ere Charles Gilmartin was ensconced in the little apartment, quite reconciled to being waited on by his wife rather than a nameless person in hotel livery.
Vivien leaned back against the wall of the lift and closed her eyes as it began to rise noiselessly upwards. The relief that the class reunion was behind her was tempered by a sense of anticlimax. Everything had gone according to plan and yet she was left with this irrational dissatisfaction. She had managed to isolate Bill Lorimer for a little while, marvelling to herself at how he had changed. There was something almost formidable about the man that had been lacking in the boy she remembered, strength of character as well as a physical presence that made him a person she could easily desire. Her chest heaved with a sigh.
Vivien opened her eyes as the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open, revealing a carpeted lobby with subdued lighting, a brown-painted door on either side. As far as she knew, the other flat remained unoccupied, something the letting agent had mentioned when he had shown her the apartment. She stood for a moment, listening, but there was no sound from the other side of the door. She felt in her coat pocket for the key, then, taking a deep breath, let herself into the darkened hallway.
A fumbled hand on the light switch illuminated the place, showing the narrow passage that led to the bedroom where Charles must be lying in bed. The flat felt stuffy after the chilly April night, yet she shivered, hugging her coat to her as she moved down the hall and entered the living room. There was no need for a lamp in here, Vivien thought, moving towards the huge windows that looked over the city. Lights glittered everywhere: blues and purples picking out the shapes of the bridges; the constantly moving headlights of cars as they crossed the Clyde; streaks of yellow from the riverside street lamps thrown across the dark waters.
Once this had been her city, but so much had changed, Vivien thought as she turned down the heating. She didn’t belong here any more, and although London was the place that she called home, she knew that her hopes for the evening just past might have rekindled something she had lost.
With a sigh, she turned, her red hair glowing like a fox in the dark as she began heading towards the bedroom.
His hand reached out to grab the telephone as it shrilled in the darkness. It seemed only moments before that sleep had finally taken him into its deep embrace, and now Lorimer was awake, expecting a voice that would require his presence at a scene of crime.
‘Foxy?’ The word fell from his lips before he had time to think, his feet hitting the carpet beside the bed, taking him away from Maggie’s side. This was something she should not, must not hear. The light from the side window shone across the hallway, throwing his shadow on to the wall.
‘Slow down,’ he commanded. ‘Are you sure?’
‘He’s dead!’ The voice on the other end of the line rose hysterically. ‘Charles is dead! Oh God, please help me! I don’t know what to do.’
‘Call the police. Right now, d’you hear me?’
‘I can’t,’ Vivien Gilmartin protested. ‘I can’t deal with strangers here, seeing him like this… Won’t you…?’
‘Vivien, where exactly are you?’
Lorimer listened as the woman told him between sobs.
He stifled a sigh, glancing back at the open bedroom door beyond the upstairs landing. She was begging him to come, asking him as a friend, and something inside him weakened. He could contact the local division once he’d reached the flat, let them call out a doctor.
‘Okay. I’ll come, I promise,’ he said. At once her crying ceased and he could hear her breathing hard.
‘I’ll be with you soon, all right?’
‘Thank you,’ Vivien said softly. ‘I won’t forget this, ever.’
Charles Gilmartin’s body lay on the double bed, his arms flung out as though a bad dream had disturbed his sleep, his grizzled head turned to one side.
Vivien stood a little apart, wondering what it was she ought to be feeling right now. She was a widow, a grieving widow. Should she be keening like an animal in pain? Or stroking her dead husband’s hand? Shock and numbness, she told herself. These were surely the initial sensations on discovering one’s husband lying dead in his bed. She rubbed her hands together, realising that her fingers had become cold, wishing for some strange reason that she could put on her gloves again but thinking how odd that would seem, to be indoors wearing gloves. The notion seemed almost mad. But perhaps the thought was a good one, something outside this unreal situation to keep her sane, something that made her focus on the here and now. Like Lear, she thought; at the end the King’s attention fixed on a small, insignificant detail that overwhelmed the enormity of dying. Pray you, undo this button…
Lorimer rang the security buzzer outside, his breath smoking in the chill night air. The car had registered one degree above freezing. It was typical of Scotland’s weather at this time of year: one day could be bright and sunny with nary a cloud in the sky, only to be followed by an unexpected snowfall. It felt cold enough for a frost at any rate, he thought, pressing the buzzer again, wondering why Vivien’s voice hadn’t broken through the ensuing silence.
‘Lorimer?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘Top left.’
The door lock was released with a drilling sound, then Lorimer stepped into a dimly lit lobby with tired-looking pot plants in the alcoves by the inner door.
It was five floors up, the lift taking him there in seconds.
Vivien was waiting for him in the half-opened doorway and the detective saw she was still wearing her dark green coat, though it was unbuttoned, revealing her too slender figure in the smart black dress.
‘Oh, Bill!’
She flung herself into his arms and began to sob, her words muffled against his jacket.
‘Shh,’ he whispered, stroking her hair as though comforting a child. ‘Come on, better get inside. It’s too cold out here for you.’
His eyes were on the corridor ahead, wondering which of the doors led to the body of Charles Gilmartin. Vivien snuffled into a handkerchief.
‘You didn’t expect this? I mean, he hasn’t been ill or anything, has he?’ Lorimer asked as Vivien led him into a square lounge with windows overlooking the Clyde and the glittering city lights beyond.
She shook her head, the lamplight catching her hair, making it a halo of fire.
‘No. No, Charles was never ill.’
She put both hands over her mouth and he could see her throat move, swallowing her tears.
‘I can’t go back in there, Bill. I just can’t bear to see him,’ she whispered, her eyes large with fear as she looked up into his face. She pulled her coat tight around her, arms hugging her body, making Lorimer want to reach out and hold her again, take the horror away.
‘Is that the kitchen?’ he asked, pointing towards a door on the far side of the room.
She nodded.
‘Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You go and make us both a cup of tea, while I take a look at your husband. Right?’
She nodded again, a quick, shivery response.
‘Then I’ll call for some help,’ he told her. ‘There will be a few people here quite soon, I’m afraid, and you might find things a bit confusing. But I’ll be here,’ he said quietly, taking a step towards her and patting her shoulder. ‘Which room…?’
‘The one across the corridor. Next to the bathroom.’ Vivien blinked rapidly as though to prevent tears falling, and a tremulous smile crossed her face. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, reaching up as though she were about to touch his arm. But then her hand fell to her side and she turned obediently towards the kitchen, head bowed.
You could be forgiven for imagining that the man was simply asleep. In death, Charles Gilmartin was still a big man, his grey hair flecked with white around the temples, mouth slightly open as though he was breathing deeply. But no breath would ever issue from those lips again, Lorimer knew as his gloved fingers felt for a pulse. The eyes were closed, so he must have been asleep at the moment of his dea
th. Heart attack? Perhaps, Lorimer thought, studying the man’s profile, the hawk-like nose and the dark stubble shadowing his chin. A sudden death at any rate, something that would have to be reported to the Procurator Fiscal.
Poor Vivien, he thought. A post-mortem would be inevitable unless the man’s medical history pointed to the likelihood of a sudden demise. But he was never ill, she’d said.
Lorimer walked slowly around the bed, looking for signs that might tell him something, knowing that a doctor was needed to determine just what had happened to cause the man’s death. With a sigh he drew out his mobile phone and pressed a button, one small action that would set several necessary wheels in motion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Further down the river, a large lorry was trundling across the Kingston Bridge, its cargo quiet now on this chilly April night.
Asa had never felt such cold before, a cold that had crept into her very bones. They had given her a thick grey coat and some woolly socks but the cold had seeped through the fibres long since, like an insidious creature invading every cell of her body. Sometimes during the long darkness she had tried to pray, but there had been no answer to her cries. Her head bowed, Asa began to wonder what she had done wrong to be so cast out from all that was dear to her. Eyes shut tight, she conjured up memories of morning sun across the veldt.
The weaver birds would be twittering above her little house, the long shadows of the acacia tree slanting across the hard cracked ground. She imagined the tethered goat flicking flies with its tail, and she wanted to draw a hand across her face almost as if she expected to brush them off herself. But there were no irritating insects here in this cold, cold place that shook and vibrated as the lorry drove on and on into endless night. At home Asa would be walking barefoot to the well as the sun rose steadily, warming her arms. The other girls might be chattering as they walked; if one of them began to sing, then all would raise their voices, joining in one of the ancient songs that girls always sang. And they would laugh together as they stepped out across the dusty landscape, happy in the way of innocent young women who were still unaware of what happiness was.
