Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  ‘Ann-Marie. Polis!’ he yelled, but before he could hit the floor, Duncan grabbed him by the bottom of his nylon jacket, pulling him upright.

  ‘Take yer haunds off of me, will ye!’ Davie McGroary yelled, jerking his body sideways in an attempt to resist the strong arms of the law.

  ‘Leave him alane ye big basturts!’ A small dark figure flung itself into the fray, yanking the sleeve of the other officer who was attempting to cuff McGroary. The sound from her throat was a deep animal growl as she lunged at the policeman, sinking her teeth into the fleshy part of his wrist.

  ‘Ann-Marie, get him aff me!’ McGroary urged, swinging his body away from PC Duncan, who held him fast.

  But it was over in a matter of seconds, the pair mouthing obscenities as the two officers led them out into the waiting van.

  Between panting breaths, the policeman cautioned the girl who was still struggling in his grasp. ‘Ann-Marie Monahan…’

  Once in the van Duncan turned to his neighbour. ‘Better get that seen to,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the wound on the other man’s wrist. ‘Never know where she’s been.’

  Lorimer took the stairs two at a time, straining his ears to hear what was going on. Officially he knew nothing about McGroary, so he would have to feign ignorance to begin with. And he didn’t have long to wait.

  ‘Hear the latest, sir?’ Young Dodgson had spotted Lorimer in the corridor and his eager face shone with the excitement of an officer who is part of a case that looks as if it is coming to a good conclusion. Lorimer knew that look. It was an adrenaline rush that made officers hyper even when the hours had made them bone-weary and cranky, wishing for a warm bed and some much needed kip.

  ‘We brought in a suspect for the old lady’s death,’ Dodgson continued. ‘DI Martin and DS Wainwright are interviewing him right now. Seems he thought he was being busted for dope.’ Dodgson went on to describe the girlfriend’s assault on one of the police officers and McGroary’s panic.

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Great. Hope they get a result.’ He paused. Did DI Martin ask for me? he wanted to say. But of course he couldn’t bring himself to utter those words. McGroary might well be involved in the Jackson case and of course Martin would bring him into the interview situation. Wouldn’t she? Lorimer hesitated then gave Dodgson a smile before stepping into his office. Sitting behind the desk, he drummed his fingers on the scored wooden surface, wondering.

  It was more than an hour before the call came but, when it did, Lorimer was propelled from his chair and left the room in seconds.

  Interview Room Two was the usual nondescript box of a room that would be found in any police station. The soundproof panels were one shade away from the colour of tea biscuit and the well-disinfected floor could only be described as manky brown. The room’s only concession to colour was the blue chairs placed either side of the cheap fake-wooden table. There was no point in spending much on furnishings that could be thrown around by some mad bastard in a drunken fit of rage — and frequently were. Neither was there a fancy glass wall that gave access to one-way viewing. Such luxuries belonged firmly in the realm of TV cop shows, not in the real world down in Greenock Terminal.

  ‘Superintendent Lorimer has entered the room,’ DI Martin intoned, her face towards the black boxes sitting at the side of the table next to the wall.

  Lorimer stood for a moment, looking at the man sitting opposite.

  David McGroary was slumped into his chair, the dark tracksuit already showing patches of sweat under the armpits. His arms were folded belligerently across his chest in a typical stance of defiance against the authority that DI Martin represented. Lorimer noticed the man’s medium build, the legs thrust under the table and the filthy trainers crossed at the ankle. A mulish expression around his mouth made the detective wonder if McGroary had wearied his inquisitors with a series of No comments. It happened so often and could frustrate even the most patient of officers. But a quick glance at Rhoda Martin showed that, despite two spots of colour on her high cheekbones, the woman looked remarkably unruffled.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ she told Lorimer. ‘He’s yours for now.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Inspector,’ Lorimer replied smoothly and sat down in the chair she had vacated before switching the tape back on and announcing, ‘DI Martin has left the interview room.’

  DS Wainwright remained in the room, his chair slightly to one side as if to be ready to leap up and grab the prisoner if anything became violent. Lorimer smiled a wintry little smile to himself. He’d put money on Wainwright over McGroary any day, he thought, looking from the detective sergeant’s prop forward physique to the layers of fat rolling over the waistband of McGroary’s joggers.

  ‘David McGroary, I’m Superintendent Lorimer from A Division in Glasgow,’ he began, his tone polite and with the tiniest hint of deference.

  At the word Glasgow, the man opposite unfolded his arms and sat up a little bit straighter. The big city obviously commanded a modicum of respect from the folk down here, Lorimer guessed. Either that, or his main dealer was from outside the district.

  ‘I have been sent here to continue an inquiry into a house fire in Kilmacolm. The home of your previous employer, Sir Ian Jackson,’ he said, gazing steadily at McGroary in a way that made him look back. A flash of uncertainty crossed the prisoner’s grey eyes and Lorimer saw the doubt in the parted lips and the worry frown appearing between his brows. He knows he’s a suspect, Lorimer told himself. Let’s see if he’ll crack enough to give us what we want. In that nanosecond the notion of winding up this case and heading back home to Glasgow suddenly washed over Lorimer. But such thoughts were as tempting as the very devil. Nothing should influence him right now. Nothing but a need for the truth. Martin had to find whoever had killed those old ladies from Port Glasgow but it was his remit to focus on a very different case. And was this man, sitting sweating before him, a possible suspect?

  ‘It would help us very much if you were willing to tell me about your relationship with Sir Ian,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘What relationship?’ McGroary answered with a derisory snort. ‘He wis ma boss, okay?’

  ‘And he fired you, right?’

  McGroary nodded.

  ‘Mr McGroary has signalled his assent to that question,’ Lorimer told the black box. ‘And you decided to indulge in a little firing of your own, perhaps?’ he asked, the tone so smooth that McGroary’s mouth fell open. Then, as the words dawned on him, he slammed the flats of his hands on to the table, making it shudder.

  ‘No way! Yer no goin tae stitch me up fir that. Ah wis nowhere near the place when it happened!’ He was leaning forward now, breathing heavily and staring back into a pair of blue eyes that regarded him steadily.

  ‘And where exactly were you, Mr McGroary?’ Lorimer asked, not moving from his position, hands still clasped loosely in front of him.

  Something about this detective’s tone must have disarmed him, for Davie McGroary began to frown and bite his lips nervously, evidently unsure of just what was going on now that the tall superintendent from Glasgow had taken over from the blonde woman.

  ‘I wis at hame. Ask Anne Marie. She’ll tell ye.’ The man’s eyes darted from Wainwright to Lorimer and back again and this time Lorimer saw an expression that he recognised quite easily. It was fear.

  ‘Certainly, Mr McGroary, we’ll do that. And easily enough since Miss Monahan isn’t too far away at present.’ Lorimer allowed the ghost of a smile to appear on his face, knowing that this would only add to the prisoner’s confusion. Whatever tactics of interrogation DI Martin had employed, his own methods were certainly working.

  ‘To get back to Sir Ian and Lady Pauline,’ he said. ‘You had been dismissed for a misdemeanour at your place of employment. ’ Lorimer smiled again, this time as if sharing a joke. ‘It must have been a bit of a blow, surely?’

  ‘Ach, he wis out of order. What wis the harm in takin a piss? Aye, I wis annoyed. Who wouldnae be? But no enough tae set
fire tae his hoose and kill him. C’mon, man, that’s mental!’ McGroary shifted in his chair again, the arms folded once more and the eyes a shade less wary.

  ‘But you were annoyed?’

  ‘Ah said that already,’ McGroary replied in a tone of world weariness, as if this copper was perhaps a wee bit on the simple side despite his senior rank.

  ‘Who do you think would have set fire to that house?’ Lorimer turned in his chair suddenly, addressing DS Wainwright who had been listening with growing interest to the dialogue between the tall detective and their prisoner. Kate Clark had told him about Lorimer’s interview techniques and now he was enjoying them at first hand.

  ‘Oh, someone who didn’t have much of a conscience, I suppose, ’ Wainwright replied, playing along.

  ‘And someone who might just as easily knock a few old ladies down their stairs?’

  ‘Sounds the type to me,’ Wainwright agreed.

  ‘Ah didnae do it!’ McGroary roared at them, his fury igniting at being so suddenly ignored.

  ‘Do what, Mr McGroary?’ Lorimer asked him, his eyebrows rising in mock surprise as if suddenly realising there was another person in the room.

  ‘Whit ye said ah did!’ he blustered. ‘Ony of it. Nae old ladies ever came tae herm frae me. An ah nivver set off ony fires!’

  Lorimer turned back to Wainwright as if the uproar across the table was a mere distraction from his conversation with the DS. ‘The prisoner’s record shows wilful fire-raising and assault to severe injury, plus the handling and supplying of drugs. Would you say that was concomitant with a person of no conscience?’ he asked, hand on his chin as though they were debating some ethical subject on Question Time.

  ‘Whit’s concom…?’ McGroary’s mouth was hanging open again, revealing one squint front tooth overlapping the other.

  The smell of sweat was distinct now and Lorimer knew there would be damp smears on the tabletop where the man’s meaty fingers were making long streaks as he swayed back and forward in a steady rhythm, as if he were bursting for the toilet. Remembering the reason for his dismissal, Lorimer smiled again. A weak bladder might just work to their advantage, putting more pressure on the man.

  ‘What did you do when you knew the Jacksons were dead?’ Lorimer asked suddenly, turning his chair so swiftly that McGroary was taken off-guard.

  ‘What?’ The man ran a hand through a mop of already unkempt, greasy hair, making it stick up in cartoon spikes.

  ‘I’ll repeat the question,’ Lorimer began again, but this time he leaned forward, grasping McGroary with his eyes every bit as effectively as if he had laid hands on the man and shaken him. ‘What did you do when you knew the Jacksons were dead? Burned alive,’ he added, his face so close to the prisoner’s that he could smell the fear coming off him in waves.

  ‘I nivvir done nothin. I swear. Honest to God. I nivver done nothin. Aw Jesus, ye cannae think ah did that!’ he moaned, then, tearing his eyes away from Lorimer’s steely gaze, he buried his face in his outstretched arms and began to sob noisily.

  ‘DI Martin re-entering the room,’ a voice told them.

  Lorimer stood up, pulling back his chair, leaving the prisoner to add his snot and tears to the tabletop.

  ‘A word,’ Lorimer whispered quietly to Martin as she approached the table. ‘Superintendent Lorimer leaving the room,’ he told the black box. Signalling to the uniformed officer outside to make his way into the interview room, Lorimer closed the door behind them.

  ‘Well?’ Rhoda Martin stood before him, arms folded across her slight bosom, an expression of reluctant eagerness in her green eyes.

  ‘Claims to have an alibi for the night of the Jackson fire,’ Lorimer told her.

  ‘So? Has to be corroborated, hasn’t it? Couldn’t you get him to confess?’ she challenged, head tilted to one side.

  ‘I doubt if he’ll confess to something he hasn’t done, Detective Inspector,’ Lorimer replied. ‘I take it he’ll remain here overnight in custody since you’ve got him on the drugs charge?’ he asked, already walking away from her. ‘Must be off now. I’ll see you in the morning,’ Lorimer said, heading along the corridor and waving a hand in the air.

  Lorimer didn’t need to look behind him to know that DI Rhoda Martin’s green eyes would now be following him with pent-up curiosity. He’d leave it to her to make a case against McGroary if there was any evidence to suggest that he had indeed stalked and murdered three old women. But some instinct told him that the man had played no part in the Jackson murder.

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘ I’m telling you, it was murder!’ Sarah Smith pounded a tight little fist on the table top as nine pairs of eyes stared at her in amazement. ‘Jean’s daughter-in-law says her lad Gary’s been at the police station again. And,’ she added darkly, ‘they’ve found another body.’

  There was a silent nodding from the other members of Port Glasgow Scribblers, the writers’ group that Jean Wilson had enjoyed for many years before her death.

  ‘My Andy won’t let me go out on my own now,’ one elderly lady confessed. ‘He’s picking me up after this. Any of you want a lift?’

  ‘Aye, hen, ah’ll come with you.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Cannae be too careful, what with a mad hoodie on the loose.’

  ‘Think the rest of us should all walk up the road together, eh? Just in case, I mean.’ A middle-aged woman by Sarah’s side bit her lip, trying not to voice what was on all of their minds.

  ‘She told us, didn’t she?’ someone else offered. ‘About the stalker, I mean.’

  ‘And we thought it was just her imagination running riot.’

  ‘Great at her stories, was Jean.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sarah sniffed into a handkerchief. ‘But she never expected to be the lead story in the local paper, did she?’

  ‘Good! That’s the stuff. At this rate we’ll have you out of here in no time!’

  Alice Finlay stretched out to grasp the zimmer again. The first few steps were the hardest, the girl had told her. Now that she had managed to stand steady enough on that rubber mat, she was ready for the next important part of her physiotherapy.

  The ward gym had plenty of equipment, like these huge footballs that the therapist made her catch so that they could test Alice’s balance. There were always two of them on hand, ready to grasp Alice’s arms if she wobbled and looked like falling. She gripped the metal edge of the zimmer, conscious of the strain on her shoulders. Oh, how weak she still was!

  Alice Finlay gritted her teeth. This stroke thing was there to be beaten. And beat it she would.

  ‘That’s it, Mrs Finlay. Great!’ the girl encouraged. ‘Wait till your daughter hears how well you’re doing.’

  Maggie waited by the lift. She recognised some of the other regular visitors standing around, looking at the red numbers flickering as they changed between floors. Her shoulders sagged as she stood there, mentally berating herself for being unable to drag her feet up those stairs. School had been particularly hard today, her five classes presenting her with differing challenges and her only non-teaching period being swallowed up by a ‘please take’ for an absentee teacher from their English department. Maggie was on her own for this evening’s visiting hour. Bill had left her a message to say he’d be late. Again. It was par for the course, she thought wearily, and when he did come home she’d be too full of her own misery over Mum’s condition to have much sympathy for a tired husband.

  The lift clicked into life, the doors opening with a sigh, and Maggie followed the others in. She closed her eyes, remembering the words of MacCaig’s poem:

  I will not feel, I will not feel, until

  I have to.

  Then the door opened again with a ping and the light from the corridors beckoned. Maggie blinked, the words of poetry dissolving as she entered the ward for a visiting hour of her own.

  ‘Mum!’ The sight of Alice Finlay sitting up in bed, hair brushed neatly back from her face, a proper smile reaching her mouth, made Maggie rush forwards and kiss h
er mother’s cheek.

  ‘Well, you look a hundred times better tonight. Can you tell me what you’ve been up to?’

  Alice nodded and began to utter the words that were forming in her brain. Slowly she enunciated each one, pausing for breath and giving Maggie a grin at the astonished expression on her daughter’s face.

  ‘You can speak properly now!’

  ‘Had plenty… of… practisss… in my… life,’ Alice replied, giving a little nod.

  Maggie heard the childlike treble in her mother’s voice. Suddenly Alice Finlay had become an old, frail woman and, despite this progress, Maggie wondered if she would ever see the strong, feisty woman she had once been.

  Bit by bit the story of the day’s events unfolded and, by the time the bell signalled the end of visiting time, Maggie had learned that not only had her Mum begun to walk again, but that the regular speech therapy exercises had given her back that little voice.

  ‘Mrs Lorimer? Can you spare a minute, please?’ A figure in dark blue called to Maggie from the nurses’ station, coming swiftly round and indicating a side room.

  ‘Sister Kilbryde,’ she introduced herself. ‘Come in here, would you? I’d like a wee word about your mother.’

  Maggie hardly saw the road as she drove home from the Southern General. It was good news, of course it was, but the problem of where her mother would go once discharged from hospital still remained. Maggie had fudged that particular issue with Sister Kilbryde and now her thoughts danced about between what she had been told and what was to come. Zimmers, walking sticks, a seat for the bath, a special easy chair: all the things her mother would need when she was finally ready to come home. But where home would actually be was the question uppermost in Maggie’s mind. Sister Kilbryde had been full of questions about her patient’s own little house. She’d shaken her head when Maggie had described the split-level design.