by Alex Gray
‘Looks like you’re stuck with us,’ Wilson heard the tall Lewisman say to the young woman.
She smiled back ruefully as if the request was just one more harassment in an already busy day. ‘See what I can do for you. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’ She replaced the papers, slammed shut the cabinet that she had been searching through and walked them both around a corner, stopping at a different cabinet with pink legal ribbons threaded through the handles. They watched as she found the staff files from P to T, her fingers walking through the names.
‘Here we are,’ she said at last. ‘Michael Turner.’ She drew out a buff-coloured file and handed it to Cameron. But even as her fingers felt the slim file, her expression changed. ‘It’s empty,’ she said, face reddening. ‘Mr Barr will kill me!’
‘Really? Why? It’s not your fault,’ Cameron spoke reasonably as they regarded the open folder.
‘But he asked me to find it for you!’ The girl’s voice rose in a wail.
‘So? How can that be a hanging offence?’ Cameron joked.
Emma muttered something under her breath that sounded like ‘You don’t know Mr Barr.’
‘We weren’t meant to hear that,’ Wilson murmured to Cameron, composing his features into a deliberately neutral expression. ‘I’ll take it anyway, Miss … ?’
‘Emma. Emma Rogers,’ the girl replied. She handed over the empty file, looking at it with something akin to despair.
‘Any idea where I might find out about Michael Turner’s personnel details, Miss Rogers?’ Wilson asked.
The girl shrugged. ‘Computer records. Or try human resources. They might have a duplicate of this somewhere,’ she replied. ‘I’ll take you along to that department, if you like,’ she offered, leading them away from the filing systems through an open-plan area that looked out over the river and into an adjoining office. ‘Jennifer … oh. Where is she?’ Emma Rogers stood at the office door, the two policemen by her shoulder. ‘God, this place is mad this morning,’ the girl muttered, then walked to the office next to Jennifer Hammond’s.
‘Anyone seen Jennifer?’ she asked. A grey-haired middle-aged man looked up at her from his seat behind a desk.
‘Gone home,’ the man replied shortly. ‘Said she wasn’t feeling well. Why?’
Emma hesitated then turned towards Wilson as if sensing his growing impatience.
‘These gentlemen are from Strathclyde Police, Adrian. They’re looking for Michael Turner’s personnel records and they could be missing from filing. Seems they’ve been deleted from the computer system as well. Any ideas?’
The man got up and came around to where Wilson and Cameron stood in the doorway. ‘Adrian Millhouse. I’m one of Jennifer Hammond’s staff. Just part time, actually.’ The man grinned and thrust out his hand. ‘Should’ve retired ages ago when I gave up accountancy, but couldn’t stay away from the old place,’ he added. ‘You’re looking for young Michael’s files? Can’t say I’d know where to start looking if you’ve already tried filing and IT. Tell you what, let’s have a dekko in Jennifer’s office.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Our Jennifer had a soft spot for Michael,’ he added.
The four of them trooped back into the human resource manager’s room and Wilson watched as Adrian Millhouse went straight to the desk drawer. After only a moment’s rummaging, he produced a handful of papers and grinned.
‘Here we are. Michael’s personal stuff. Personal rather than personnel, if you get me.’ He winked again.
‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ Emma Rogers sounded doubtful.
Wilson bit his lip. It wasn’t really his place to break bad news to Barr’s staff but this was becoming farcical. ‘Michael Turner has died,’ he told them quietly, watching as Adrian’s grin melted off his face and Emma gave a gasp of disbelief. ‘The American police are treating his death as murder. Mr Barr will no doubt make an announcement to you later today and I expect you’ll be reading about it in the papers before too long.’ He grimaced, sensing Cameron nodding in agreement beside him. ‘Meantime, I’d appreciate it if you could be discreet.’
Adrian Millhouse leaned against the desk. ‘That’s why the poor woman was so upset. No wonder she needed to go home.’
Wilson turned to Emma. ‘Thanks for your help, Miss Rogers. I wonder if you might bring us a cup of coffee? I think we’ll have a wee chat with Mr Millhouse.’ His voice was deliberately kind. Making coffee for them would give the girl something to do and an opportunity for Millhouse to tell them more about the relationship between Jennifer Hammond and the late Michael Turner.
An ache was beginning to nag at the top of Lorimer’s skull as he reread the papers in front of him. Michael Turner had left his flat in the Merchant City in the hands of estate agents. It would fetch a pretty price, thought Lorimer, looking at the particulars on the schedule. But to whom would the dead man’s estate belong now? That was the question uppermost in his mind. DVLC records had thrown up some information as had Turner’s medical records, but so far there was no sign of a next of kin. He had been an only child as had his father, so there were no uncles or cousins on this side of the pond. It was a can of worms, and a suspicious can at that. Could there possibly be any older relatives still living? Lorimer threw the papers down. It was time for his staff to find these things out, he thought as the telephone began to ring.
‘Chief Inspector? Adrian Millhouse here. Your detective sergeant asked me to call if I remembered any details about poor Michael that might help the investigation.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s maybe nothing, but we shared the same dentist. I just thought … medical records and all that …’ the man’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
‘No, you were quite right to call, Mr Millhouse. Give me the dentist’s name and number, would you?’
‘It’s Ian Lynch,’ Millhouse replied, then reeled off the dentist’s phone number. ‘Michael asked me to recommend a good dentist when his old one retired. He’s been going to Ian now for about four years, I think,’ Millhouse gabbled on.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Lorimer paused then asked, ‘Mr Millhouse? Is there any possibility of you coming in to HQ to listen to the same tape Miss Hammond heard?’
‘Ah.’ The tone of the old man told him he’s hit a sore spot. ‘’Fraid not. Hearing’s not reliable, you know, even with this digital gadget. Things tend to get a bit distorted.’
‘Thanks anyway, sir. Much obliged.’ Lorimer rang off. That was one witness whose testimony wouldn’t stand up in court. Still, the dental records would certainly be useful to the NYPD in corroborating the dead man’s identity, although there was little doubt about that, surely? What Lorimer needed now was to talk to Jennifer Hammond. Maybe the ex-girlfriend would be able to shed some light on the puzzle of why these personnel files were missing.
CHAPTER 23
The light was fading by the time Lorimer drove back through the city streets. April was a month of strange contrasts. One day it could be cold enough to snow, the next there were these lovely spring sunsets with the promise of longer days to come. What was it Maggie was fond of quoting?
‘April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of a dead land.’
Eliot’s famous words, of course, that referred to the dead of a century before. April in upstate New York had not been so cold that the grave of Michael Turner had frozen over. In fact it had been amazing that it had been found so quickly after the young man’s death. It was a freak coincidence that those hunting dogs had turned it up so soon after the body had been buried. Could’ve lain there for years, the officer in charge had told him. They usually do, the man had added gloomily. But by some quirk of fate this body was not meant to rest in foreign soil for long.
Lorimer turned out of the motorway traffic and headed towards the slip road that would take him into the leafier suburbs and the patch of peace and quiet that he called home. The clouds were darkening now, layers of nimbus showing bright against fading grey as the sun sank
somewhere out of sight. The final part of his journey took him directly west towards the Kilpatrick Hills. A pall of mist obscured the outline of the hills but he could still make out their blue-green slopes with darker patches from burnt winter heather. For a few minutes Lorimer forgot the job, the meeting with Mitchison, everything, in his contemplation of the view before him. He was heading west where the hills became wilder and grander, hiding deep waters and mountain cataracts. Glasgow citizens were so lucky, he often told himself. A few miles and the streets were left behind, the open countryside there for the taking. He cruised along on the outside lane, open fields on either side. A faint tinge of green had begun to show on the hedgerows now. Soon there would be a quickening of the blood as the sap rose and birds began their seasonal couplings.
The image made Lorimer’s thoughts turn to Jennifer Hammond. A close friend of Michael Turner’s: she had a soft spot for him, Adrian Millhouse had said. Wilson had not been slow picking up on that titbit. She’d certainly reacted badly to the news of his murder, according to her colleague. Well, tomorrow he’d make it his business to speak to her, to find out just how close she had been to the dead man. And, he told himself, whose name she had held back on hearing that tape; the voice of a hysterical woman who had witnessed what might have been a murder.
The morning dawned grey and still, a fine drizzle covering the hills as Lorimer drove back along the motorway towards the city. It was early enough to miss the traffic jams that would hold up lines of commuters trying to make their offices for a nine o’clock start. Since Maggie had come home Lorimer had found himself spending more sensible hours at work. That was one of the few things he’d agreed on with Mitchison following his wife’s return, he thought wryly, though police work never really kept to a nine-to-five schedule, despite European directives about working-time practices. There was always the pressure to push on with the latest job and always a shortage of manpower to achieve it. Public perception of the police was not as good as it used to be, especially since the Soham case down south. The Home Secretary hadn’t made any of their lives easier in the wake of that scandal. Now every ‘i’ had to be dotted and every ‘t’ crossed, something in which his superintendent seemed to revel. He could see the point of it, but sometimes he felt as if all the administration got in the way of the real job of catching criminals and bringing them to justice. Would the cold case unit be any better? That was something he’d have to find out.
Lorimer slowed down and took the exit that led south of the river and to the complex of flats beside Kingston Bridge. Jennifer Hammond’s flat was one of a modern development that had been resurrected from the site of the famous Glasgow Garden Festival. The DCI drove directly under Kingston Bridge, glad for once to be free of the usual early morning log-jam on the three lanes that straddled the Clyde, and slowed down as he made his way around the perimeter of the complex. There were bright swathes of daffodils blossoming on the landscaped verges of Riverview Gardens and the patches of evergreen shrubbery were well trimmed. Given its proximity to the city centre, this place was an oasis of calm.
Lorimer found the block of apartments where Jennifer Hammond lived, right at the end of a curving road close to the water’s edge. He locked the car, turned his jacket collar against the now heavy rain and hurried towards the main door.
‘Yes?’ The voice over the security entrance system sounded sharp.
‘DCI Lorimer, Miss Hammond. May I come up?’
There was a pause then a buzzer sounded to admit him and Lorimer entered a square hallway with pots of leafy plants placed where they would catch the sun. The hall was carpeted and clean and the small lift free from any sign of graffiti, he noticed, as it glided upwards to the fifth floor of the building. There was no doubt that the human resources manager lived in some comfort and style. It probably cost the tenants a fortune in service charges. The days of taking your turn to clean the stairs simply didn’t apply to owners of modern apartments.
Lorimer had barely pressed the doorbell when Jennifer Hammond pulled open the door. Today her green eyes were cold and distant; it was hard to imagine that they had regarded Lorimer with such flirtatiousness on their first meeting. Michael Turner’s death had made an impact on her, he was sure.
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said at last, opening the door wider. Lorimer stepped into a long, narrow hallway, almost stumbling over a suitcase against the wall. Its sides were bulging and an identity strap was secured across the case.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asked, eyeing the case then directing his gaze at the redhead.
‘Yes,’ she replied shortly. It was still early yet the woman was dressed in a dark-green trouser suit and was wearing high-heeled shoes, as if she were preparing to leave the flat. Just where was she going? Not work, he thought, glancing once more at the suitcase. Her name and a destination in Cyprus were scrawled across the luggage label. Jennifer Hammond turned on her heels and led Lorimer down a passage to a light and airy sitting room with picture windows that overlooked the river. Lorimer took a deep breath. The name Riverview Gardens was entirely apt. The view was positively panoramic. Towards the west he could see many familiar landmarks, including the spire of Glasgow University and the twin towers of Kelvingrove Art Gallery. The arc of Kingston Bridge showed cars and lorries whizzing across from north to south. And was that really a cormorant he could see flying low over the water? Lorimer tore his gaze reluctantly from the window. Inside, the sitting room was comfortably furnished with pale wooden tables and open shelving, a large glass table dominating the centre of the room. The pictures on the wall were Jack Vettriano prints, placed there more for the fact that they matched the decor than for their aesthetic qualities, Lorimer surmised.
‘Please sit down, Chief Inspector.’ Jennifer immediately sat on the edge of an armchair covered in pale gold fabric that faced a matching two-seater settee. Lorimer had no option but to sink his long frame into the squashy cushions. For a moment their eyes met and he thought he saw a hint of challenge in the woman’s expression as she waited for him to begin.
‘First of all, I have to say how sorry I was to have to pass on the information about the death of your colleague, Miss Hammond,’ Lorimer began. He paused but there was no pert smile and ‘Call me Jennifer’ this time around. ‘It appears that Michael Turner has no next of kin here in Scotland and so we are anxious to see who among his close friends might help with … arrangements.’ She stiffened slightly at the euphemism, but still did not speak. ‘You seem to have been good friends?’ Lorimer tilted his head and waited. Surely this time she would respond? He watched as the woman’s shoulders sagged in defeat.
‘He was my boyfriend before he went away,’ she said flatly.
‘Were you sorry to see him go off to America?’
Jennifer Hammond made a face. ‘We weren’t that sort of couple. Neither of us saw it as a long-term thing. Especially when Michael got the chance to transfer to Kirkby Russell.’
‘So there were no plans for you to join him over there? Or go for a holiday?’ Lorimer asked pointedly.
The woman shook her head, letting her long red hair fall over her face.
‘But you’re off on a holiday now?’
‘Yes. The firm has a holiday place in Cyprus. I was going to take a few days off.’ Lorimer heard the hesitation in her voice.
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know.’ She looked up at him. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Tell me what you can about Michael Turner. His background. His family. Anything that might help us to trace any living relations.’
‘Oh, well, that’s easy. He hasn’t any, unless there’s a wife hidden away somewhere.’ She began to smile then her mouth twisted in a grimace. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t even remotely funny. Michael wasn’t ever married and he was an only child. His mum and dad were killed in a road accident when he was at university. There were no uncles or aunts. He told me this,’ she added firmly and Lorimer nodded, encouraging her to con
tinue. ‘He had lots of friends, some from uni days and others from work.’ She paused, looking directly at Lorimer. ‘He was a nice man, Chief Inspector.’ Jennifer Hammond’s voice softened. ‘He deserved better.’
‘Is there anyone else you could suggest who would want to help sort out his estate?’
She frowned, thinking hard. ‘Can you leave that with me? I’d need to ring round various people and it won’t be easy once they know about the circumstances of … of his death.’ Lorimer saw her swallowing back sudden tears.
‘And Cyprus?’
She gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I’m not in the mood any more. I’ll take a few days off work, though. See if I can rally some of Michael’s buddies.’
‘I’d appreciate that, Miss Hammond,’ Lorimer told her, sensing the change in the woman’s mood.
‘Jennifer,’ she reminded him, and he nodded as he rose, acknowledging her renewed cooperation. He was almost at the front door when he turned towards her again. ‘Jennifer,’ he began, ‘that tape. Are you sure you didn’t recognize the caller’s voice?’
The eyes that met his did not flicker for an instant. ‘Quite sure, Chief Inspector Lorimer.’
Lorimer hesitated then fished out a card and pen from his inside pocket. He scribbled on the back of the card before handing it to the woman.
‘Here. I’ve added my mobile number. If you think of anything at all, please call me.’
Jennifer Hammond took the card and turned it over in her hand, one eyebrow arched in an unspoken question. Then her eyes met Lorimer’s. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘though I don’t expect I’ll use this.’
The woman breathed a long sigh as she closed the door and leaned against it. That was that, then. She turned the card over and over in her fingers, wondering about the tall policeman who was now making his way back down to the car park. There was something about him that kindled a spark within her. She smiled and moved towards the hall table where her mobile lay. Wouldn’t do any harm to put in his numbers, she thought. He was a good-looking guy was DCI Lorimer. Maybe she could call him up sometime, a little voice suggested. She hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on his finger, but that hadn’t stopped her before, had it? Her green eyes shone with a host of possibilities as she laid down her phone, Lorimer’s numbers safely logged away for future use.
