by Alex Gray
Five ways to kill a man
( Lorimer and Brighton - 7 )
Alex Gray
Alex Gray
Five ways to kill a man
The First Way
Mary listened to the noise of something rattling in the lane outside. The wind had strengthened as the evening progressed and she really should have made tracks for bed by now, but there was still a chance that he would drop in. How she had enjoyed her day with them yesterday! Christmas with the family meant so much. Sarah had picked her up just before midday, taken her to that fancy restaurant where they’d pulled crackers and enjoyed the same meal as fifty other strangers sitting at adjacent tables.
It wasn’t like the old days, Mary told herself. Then she’d have had a turkey in the oven by seven o’clock in the morning, all the trimmings prepared the day before, vegetables peeled ready in pots of cold water with just a wee dash of milk to keep the starch from leaching out. Her Christmas pudding would have been made months ago, like the rich fruit cake that she baked from a recipe that had been her mother’s. No shop bought fare for her family, Mary thought indignantly. Oh no, it had all been the best of stuff.
She’d thanked them all nicely afterwards, though, aware of the size of the bill that Malcolm was having to pay, but in truth the thin slices of turkey meat swimming in tepid gravy had given her a bout of indigestion afterwards. It was either that or these undercooked sprouts. Frozen probably, she decided, for who would spend their Christmas morning in a hotel kitchen peeling masses of vegetables when they could open a catering pack?
Danny had slipped away just as the meal was finishing, a wee pat on her shoulder and a half-promise to come round to see her tomorrow. Well, Boxing Day was almost past and not a soul had appeared at Mary’s door. Not that she blamed the boy, of course. Her grandchildren were all nice kids, well brought up, but they led such different sorts of lives from the one she had known as a teenager.
‘Och, well,’ Mary said aloud. ‘He’ll be with his pals having fun. Who needs to see an old crone like me anyway?’ She smiled at that. There was no self-pity in her tone, even though the hours had hung heavily between bouts of watching TV. Danny was her favourite out of them all and he’d come round and see her some time, just as he always did. His visits were all the more special for being unexpected and Mary was bound to be in to greet him since she never went out much these days, what with her bad hip and the arthritis that made walking so difficult.
When Mary heard the back door being knocked, a smile lit up her wizened features: it was him! Danny hadn’t let her down after all, she thought. Shuffling through the hall, the old lady placed one hand on the papered walls for support, breathing hard at the effort. She switched on the kitchen light, an expression of delighted anticipation on her face at the shadow beyond the half-glazed door. The tea tray was still prepared for them; Danny’s favourite biscuits on a plate beneath the embroidered cloth, two china cups and saucers all ready beside them. Mary smoothed down her skirt and patted her tightly permed white curls, just as if she were about to welcome a young suitor to her parlour.
Eager fingers turned the key and then the cold air rushed in, sweeping Mary’s skirt above her knees, making her tremble at the empty darkness. Where was he? The trees outside swayed in the gathering storm. Had she really seen his shadow there on her doorstep? Or was it a trick of the light?
‘Danny? Danny! Are you out there? Come in, lad, it’s too cold for me to leave the door open.’ Mary’s smile faded as she heard the branches of the old apple tree creak in the wind. Had she imagined the door being knocked? Had her heightened anticipation tricked her into imagining that familiar sound? Was it the wind?
Disappointed, Mary was about to shut the door once again when she heard it: a pitiful cry just out there in the garden, some small animal in distress. Was it a cat? She’d had cats for years, but after Tiggle had been put down Malcolm had persuaded her not to have another one. It’s too much for you, Mother, he’d scolded. But Mary still missed the companionable creature and on a night like this a furry body curled on her lap would have been very welcome. So, was it a stray cat, perhaps?
Peering into the darkness, Mary heard it again, a bit closer this time.
‘Puss?’ she queried. ‘Here, pussy,’ she said, her words drawn away by a gust of wind. Venturing forwards, Mary took one step down, her fingers gripping the rail that the nice man from social services had put in for her, and called again. ‘Puss, puss…’
The figure seemed to come from nowhere, the hood concealing his face.
‘Danny?’ Mary stood still, wondering, doubting as he mounted the steps towards her.
But in that moment of hesitation she felt her fingers being prised from the railing, then the figure was suddenly behind her.
One blow to her spine and she was falling down and down, a thin wail of pain coming from her mouth as the sharp edges of the stone steps grazed her face, cut into her flailing arms.
Mary closed her eyes before the final thud, her skull smashing against the concrete slab below.
‘Meow!’ the hooded figure cried, then laughed softly at the inert body splayed at the foot of the steps. Bending down, it lifted one of the woman’s thin wrists, feeling for a pulse. A moment passed then the hood nodded its satisfaction, letting the dead woman’s arm fall back on to the cold, hard ground.
They had all gone away, whooping and screeching as the yellow sparks flew upwards but I remained, standing still and silent, watching the skeleton of the car emerge from the flames, its white paintwork already melting in the heat.
It had been our best Hallowe’en night ever: the others had been eager at my suggestion, so casually slipped into the conversation that afterwards nobody could remember just whose idea it had been in the first place. The Beamer had been left by the kerbside and it was pretty obvious no one was at home that night, probably out partying, we told one another, sniggering that they were too goody-goody to drink and drive. Didn’t bother us, did it? We laughed at that, as the stolen car careered over the hilly track and down into the shelter of the woods, bright and alive with the rush of booze and adrenaline in our young veins.
Setting fire to it afterwards had been my idea too, though everyone had a hand in starting the flames licking at the cloth upholstery. We’d sneered at these owners; it was just a basic model, not like the better cars belonging to our own fathers. (Mine had smooth biscuit-coloured leather to match its classy exterior and it was not the sort of car that anyone would leave carelessly outside our home.)
When the engine caught fire and the petrol tank exploded we all dived for cover, screaming and laughing as though it was bonfire night come early and we were little kids again. But after that the rest of them became bored with the fire and wanted to go back up the road, bent on other mischief.
They thought I wanted to watch the car until the flames died down, but I had quite a different reason for staying behind. The tree right beside the wreck of the BMW had caught fire when the petrol tank blew up, a river of flame leaping up and scorching its branches. Now it was quivering as the fire burned away the bark, each limb blackened and shrivelling as the tree began to die. The trunk that had been smooth and grey in the firelight was now covered in patches of glowing red embers as if the wood was bleeding from within. I stood there, watching and waiting, one ear tuned for the possibility of a fire engine that might roar up from the coast, tensing myself to slip through the fence that bordered the wood.
I had never seen a living thing die before and it was with detached curiosity that I stood there seeing the tree shudder, imagining the noise in its crackling branches to be a groan of anguish. A small wind sprang up and I had to shield my eyes from the cinders coming directl
y towards me, so it was a little while before I noticed the adjacent pine trees begin to sway. They seemed to be trying to put a distance between the dying tree and themselves, bending to one side away from the conflagration. I grinned at that: as if trees had any sense! It was just a trick of the imagination and the direction of the wind. Only stupid girls in my class at school who raved on about Tolkien would think the trees were living creatures. I’d hated Lord of the Rings, though more recently I’d made myself watch the whole damned trilogy so nobody could catch me out.
But then, alone with the sound of crackling wood and that moaning voice, it was easy to think I was seeing a living thing in its death throes.
And I liked what I saw.
CHAPTER 2
‘ All for Rosie’s wedding!’ Maggie sang the words out loud as she let herself be twirled about in the ‘Gay Gordons’, the band playing the familiar tune of ‘Mairi’s Wedding’. She felt skittish with the dancing and the champagne; its bubbles had tickled her nose as she raised a glass to the happy couple.
‘What a night!’ she laughed as Lorimer drew her into his embrace. She could feel the rough texture of his kilt against her thighs, the silk dress a mere slither of fabric covering her body, and it made her tremble suddenly, desire for her husband flaring up inside her. His kiss on her earlobe was a promise of things to come, but not yet, not while there were still hours of dancing and celebration for Solly and Rosie.
The band had started up a ‘Pride of Erin’ waltz, but Lorimer was leading her by the hand back to the table, where they’d been joined by friends and colleagues from work. Alistair Wilson dropped them a wink as he escorted his wife, Betty, towards the dance floor, leaving them with Niall Cameron, Lorimer’s other Detective Sergeant from the Division. Doctor Solomon Brightman had a colourful gathering for his wedding to Rosie, Maggie thought, noticing a couple dance past, their dark looks so like the psychologist that they had to be near-relations. The whole Brightman clan seemed to have arrived in Glasgow to see their boy wed to the forensic pathologist.
‘What’ll you have, Niall?’ Lorimer lifted a bottle of white wine, dripping from its ice bucket.
‘Oh, I’m on the orange juice tonight, sir.’ Niall Cameron smiled, his Lewis accent reminding them that the young man was teetotal by choice. Too many folk end up ruining themselves with the drink, he’d once told Lorimer. And he’d been referring to what he’d seen on the islands just as much as some people here in this city whose wasted lives in drunkenness had often led to violence.
‘Cheers! And here’s to our new Detective Superintendent!’ Niall nodded across the table, his eyes soft with the glow from the candlelight between them.
‘Och, it’ll just be acting Super for a while,’ Lorimer laughed, then turned towards his wife, seeing her pleasure at the mention of his temporary role. Detective Superintendent Mark Mitchison had been seconded to the Met in London to the Anti-Terrorist Squad, and so Lorimer would take over his duties from January first. Maggie returned the smile and lifted her empty glass, shaking her head at the offer of more wine. They might well be a bit giddy with drink by the time the night was over but the dancing fairly gave her a thirst for the bottles of still water that were arrayed on the white tablecloth.
The tall creamy candles were half-burned down now but the flowers were still as bright as ever, the delicate white petals of stephanotis in deliberate contrast to the scarlet roses. Rosie had chosen red and white as her wedding colours; blood-red roses for her name, she’d laughed, not her profession.
She was coming towards them now across the dance floor, a diminutive blonde, her normally pale skin specially tanned a light golden colour to offset the ivory fairytale dress that twinkled as she walked, its hundreds of tiny seed pearls catching the light. Maggie had gasped when her friend had entered the marriage room at the Registry Office earlier that day. Rosie Fergusson’s appearance was so at odds with the woman who spent half her life in scrubs or white scene-of-crime boiler suits: her hair had been caught up by a slim gem-studded tiara and those small hands with their pearly manicure were surely not the same ones that had delved into so many human cadavers. Even Lorimer had raised one dark eyebrow, his eyes crinkling in a smile of surprise and admiration.
‘Enjoying yourselves?’ Rosie stood beside them, both hands holding the back of one of the gilded chairs as if for support. Her face was flushed and radiant, her small breasts rising and falling under the constraints of her bodice.
‘Best night of the year!’ Lorimer exclaimed.
Maggie reached out and lifted the bride’s left hand. ‘Lovely,’ she said, fingering the wedding band that sat snugly next to the diamond Solly had given her just one year before, on Christmas Day.
‘Yes,’ Rosie replied, ‘who’d have thought…’ She gave an insouciant shrug, leaving the words unsaid. Yes, thought Maggie Lorimer, they were an unlikely pair: the shy Jewish psychologist with his exotic dark beard and huge brown eyes and Rosie, the consultant pathologist whose work demanded a strong stomach and steady hand. But she may have meant more than that, Maggie told herself. The accident that had almost taken her from them… the very idea of Solly and Rosie’s lives being torn apart by that event was more than anyone could bear. So, yes, uttering such words would be wrong on this the happiest of days for them both.
‘Aye,’ Lorimer replied, ‘he’s one lucky man.’
‘And don’t I know it.’ Solly Brightman was suddenly there beside them, his arm encircling Rosie’s tiny waist. ‘Time to cut the cake, I believe, Mrs Brightman.’ His grin was suddenly so boyish that Maggie found herself clapping her hands and laughing aloud for sheer pleasure.
‘Got your scalpel, Rosie?’ someone called out as the bridal couple approached the three tiered wedding cake. A ripple of laughter broke out as Rosie lifted the knife, pretending to examine it from every angle, then Solly’s hand was over hers and they directed the blade through the white icing to another resounding cheer.
Wiping away a stray tear, Maggie felt her husband’s hand on her arm and, looking up, she grinned at his expression. Was he, too, remembering their own wedding day?
‘C’mon, let’s get a wee bit of fresh air,’ Lorimer said, leading Maggie away from the crowded room and into a spacious hallway where huge floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in sage green damasked curtains held back on gilded hooks, the darkened balconies beyond almost invisible in the massed brightness of the crystal chandeliers.
Maggie shivered as her husband opened the French windows, the cool night air chilling her skin.
‘Here,’ he said, taking off his jacket and draping it around her shoulders. ‘I’m fine,’ he added as she looked pointedly at his shirt sleeves stirring in the wind.
Then he was holding her close and Maggie felt herself relax against the warmth of his body.
‘Look at that,’ Lorimer said. ‘All these people. Wonder what they’re doing tonight…’
Below them the city was stirring; sounds of Boxing Night revelry coming from the streets, Christmas snowflake lights swaying as the wind increased. And beyond the shapes of buildings the cityscape twinkled into the distance, reminding them of a great mass of humanity all living out their disparate lives. Some, like themselves, would be celebrating, but for others this would be a bleak and lonesome time of year. Maggie glanced at her husband’s face, half hidden in the shadows, that fine profile she loved so much, his blue eyes seeing something that she could only imagine. His thoughts might not be very far from the troubles that the festive season might produce; and didn’t she know only too well the very different take policemen had on Christmastime? And this coming New Year would bring some changes for him. Was he looking forward to this temporary promotion? Or was he wishing for the days when he had been out on the hunt like his younger officers?
‘Let’s go back inside,’ she suggested, sensing the quietness of his mood turning to something too sombre for this wedding night.
‘In a minute,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Look up. Can you see anything? ’
Maggie shook her head. The sky was a black mass with faint patches of cloud scudding across.
‘Wait. Look,’ he urged her, pointing at a patch of cloud beginning to shine at the edges. Then for a brief moment she could see the full moon emerge from the scraps and rags of vapour, only to disappear again behind another storm cloud.
‘Good omen?’ Maggie offered.
Lorimer grinned down at her. ‘Don’t think that pair need any omens. They’re well blessed already.’
And as they left the darkness of the balcony behind, Maggie was nodding her head in agreement. Rosie and Solly would be fine. Here, inside the brightness of this hotel, it felt as if nothing bad could ever touch them again.
CHAPTER 3
‘ Mary MacKintyre. Eighty-seven years old,’ the policeman said, tapping the information into his PDA. ‘Suffered from…?’
‘Arthritis,’ Malcolm replied, swallowing hard as he tried to answer the officer’s questions. Sarah had left the room, holding her hand to her mouth as though to stifle another bout of weeping, leaving Malcolm to deal with the aftermath of his mother’s terrible accident. ‘She should have had a hip replacement, but the doctor reckoned her heart wouldn’t stand another operation,’ he added.
‘Doctor Bennie?’
‘Yes.’ Malcolm swallowed again. His mother’s GP had been very good, his matter-of-fact manner as much of a comfort as that kindly pat on the arm as he’d left. Cause of death had been obvious, though. The doctor hadn’t needed to stay too long to see how she had died. Malcolm fidgeted, desperate for this policeman to finish his questions and let him get on with cleaning up the mess. He itched to hose down that bloody patch on Mum’s patio, the pink and grey slabs that he’d laid himself. To make it easier maintenance, Mum, he’d told her, never once imagining…
