by Alex Gray
Maggie sank gratefully into the armchair. It had been a long day and being all alone this evening had made it longer. Ah, well. Some things never changed, she thought wistfully, wondering what it was that had kept her husband late tonight. The demons of doubt began to whisper in her ear. Was he seeing someone else? That blonde DI who had been an undercover officer was part of her husband’s team. Maggie recalled the girl from a party they’d been at. She’d been there with Mark Mitchison, as she remembered. A pretty girl, DI Josephine Grant, smart too. Maggie forced down the picture in her mind of her husband with another woman. An overactive imagination, that was what was wrong with her, she scolded herself. Think of something else.
Maybe she’d give Mum a quick ring; see what she’d been up to today. Her hand idled over the arm of the chair to where the telephone lay on the floor. She wriggled sideways then caught sight of the red flashing light. Damn! The buzzer had gone again on the answering machine. How many missed calls this time, she wondered? There was just one from Bill, telling her he’d be late. There was nothing unusual about that, Maggie told herself, so why was she unable to banish these treacherous thoughts about a certain blonde DI who might also be working overtime?
CHAPTER 27
On the other side of the Atlantic, Officer Biegel stared at the medical report and then looked again at the most recent fax from Glasgow. He frowned and read them both again. That didn’t make sense. He shook his head as if trying to shake off an irritating blowfly, then gave a sigh. It might be more trouble than it was worth, but his own curiosity as well as the knowledge that he ought to dig a bit deeper stopped him binning the fax. The NYPD officer swivelled around in his chair.
‘Hey, Curt! Take a look at this.’ Biegel waved the papers in the air. ‘Think we’ve got a problem.’ He waited until the other man loped across to his desk and read the two papers studiously.
‘Surely they’ve made some mistake?’
‘How do we tell? Want me to ask them to double-check their records?’
‘S’pose.’ Curt yawned and strolled away. It had been a long enough day and if eager Biegel wanted to correspond with Strathclyde CID at some ungodly hour of a Scottish morning that was up to him. He had a wife and kids to go home to.
Jeff Biegel considered the two documents then nodded. ‘Yeah. Why not?’ He glanced at his watch. It was way out of office hours, but maybe there’d be someone who’d be able to check this out for him. The policeman lifted the telephone and dialled the number at the foot of the page. There was no answer, which wasn’t totally surprising, then, just as he was about to hang up a voice stated ‘Strathclyde CID.’
A few minutes later the New York policeman was out of the building and weaving his way between the mass of humanity that coursed along the streets. The Glasgow cops had his cell phone number. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been woken from sleep in this job of his.
Suzanne put down the telephone. How strange for Strathclyde Police to ask for another copy of that man’s records. She’d already photocopied one set and sent them off by next-day delivery. What on earth could they want with another lot? She’d see to it during her coffee break and maybe mention the call to Mr Lynch whenever he came out of surgery. That police officer must really want them in a hurry, insisting on picking the records up later this morning. Odd, Suzanne thought, then dismissed the incident as the door buzzed to admit the next patient for their nine-thirty appointment. She would never know that several thousand miles away Officer Jeff Biegel was catching a few hours’ sleep while he waited for the young receptionist to carry out this one simple request.
The police officer scratched his head wearily. It was true, then. This second fax had supported the first one. There was no mistake about these dental records after all. No cock-up by the Brits. He screwed up his face. If what he was reading was true, then there had been a total mix-up on this side of the puddle.
That body in the woods was not Michael Turner. And now they had the additional problem of a missing person on their hands.
‘Who was she, Bill?’
Lorimer did not reply for a moment, his mind on the vivacious redhead whose life had been so suddenly snuffed out. He remembered her green eyes and that come-hither look she’d given him the first time they had met.
‘Her name was Jennifer Hammond. She’s dead,’ he replied.
Maggie realized now why his face was so white and drawn. It wasn’t just lack of sleep, then.
‘She was the human resources manager at Forbes Macgregor. Michael Turner’s girlfriend.’
‘The one who was killed in New York?’
Lorimer nodded, his mouth a thin hard line.
‘And she tried to contact you?’
Lorimer looked across to see another question in his wife’s eyes. ‘I gave her my card. Hoped she’d see sense and tell us who made that anonymous phone call.’ He sighed heavily. ‘They reckon she was trying to call me just before she died.’
‘But why?’
Lorimer slumped back on the pillow and shook his head. ‘My guess is whoever was with her made sure she would never reveal their identity. Now we’ll never know,’ he added bitterly.
Maggie took her husband’s arm and squeezed it lightly. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Me too,’ he replied, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly against him. ‘Me too.’
‘I don’t want to tell them,’ Lorimer said in a tone that made Superintendent Mitchison raise his eyebrows.
‘And why not?’
Lorimer pulled his chair a little closer to his senior officer’s desk and leaned towards him. ‘We have two suspicious deaths on our hands and one case of mistaken identity, all beginning the night of Michael Turner’s going-away party. Duncan Forbes is found dead, drowned, but with enough gamma-hydroxybutrate to make us suspect that his death was deliberate. Plus we have a hysterical caller that simply adds credence to this line of inquiry. Then Turner’s girlfriend dies in her own flat with a pack of GHB tablets in her bedside table. Aren’t these reasons enough? Who knows what’s happened to Turner, but he’s certainly not going to get rid of his own credit cards for no good reason, is he?’
‘We don’t know for certain how Jennifer Hammond died, though, do we?’
‘The lab reports should be in fairly soon. The tox. tests will show if she’s ingested the drug,’ Lorimer replied. ‘One thing we do know though, is that no fingerprints were found on that pill box.’
Mitchison raised his eyebrows. ‘Someone cleaned them off? Hm. That would seem to rule out a self-induced dosage, then.’ He frowned and sighed. ‘Have you come up with any new information about Michael Turner yet?’
Lorimer bristled inwardly. What on earth did the man expect with faxes flying to and fro across the Atlantic; a sudden miracle? But he kept his cool as he replied ‘No. Maybe once NYPD identify the victim we can put more of the pieces together. He was expected to join Kirkby Russell nearly two weeks ago. There must be some reason why he failed to show up there. We do know he entered the States, but after JFK airport there’s been not a trace of him.’
‘Except for those credit cards.’ Mitchison steepled his fingers thoughtfully. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’
‘I think there’s a strong chance of that. It wouldn’t astonish me to hear that New York police find another body out in their backwoods.’
‘And meantime?’
‘Meantime, as the senior investigating officer in this case, I don’t want any of Forbes Macgregor’s personnel knowing that Michael Turner might still be alive. We can slap a D notice on the press, too. There’s something distinctly odd about the whole thing. It smells bad. And until we know a bit more I’d rather leave these Glasgow accountants thinking he’s dead.’ Lorimer fixed his blue gaze on the superintendent. ‘There was no trace of the man’s records when Wilson and Cameron went to their office. It was almost as if somebody had expected him to be eliminated,’ he said, unconsciously echoing his detective constable’s words.<
br />
Mitchison’s eyes widened and he nodded. ‘All right. But it’ll be your responsibility to keep the lid on the New York end of things. I don’t want anybody pointing the finger at us for misleading them.’ He picked up a stack of papers and tapped them sharply on his desktop as if to intimate that the meeting between them was over, but his DCI remained seated.
‘Was there something else, Lorimer?’ Mitchison tilted his head in an imperious gesture. For a moment Lorimer was tempted to report on the dead woman’s last call but that could wait until a more auspicious moment. For now, he was more concerned about pushing this case forward and it was just possible that he knew how that might be achieved.
‘Yes,’ he replied, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back, ‘I want to use the expertise of Doctor Solomon Brightman.’
*
‘Told you so!’ Rosie crowed triumphantly. ‘Now it’s official, you can put your mind to solving Lorimer’s case!’
Solly passed a hand over his eyes. A loyal fiancée was one thing but even Rosie’s faith in him couldn’t produce magical results just like that. Still, now that he’d been officially asked, the psychologist found himself interested in the deaths of those people from Forbes Macgregor. Apart from Michael Turner, the two Glasgow deaths had similarities, not least in their locations. Solly was big on locations. It made sense to look at the areas in which victims had been found, to trace a pattern. So often the perpetrator of multiple killings could be hiding somewhere in the circle of a map, especially if its radius was not too wide. And here, he told himself, the river impinged on the locations. Even the accountancy firm itself was situated by the banks of the Clyde, in the elegant Georgian buildings of Carlton Place.
But two deaths, related or not, were going to be insufficient for any sort of geographical profile. Still, other factors could be brought into the equation like those sources supplying the drug. The Glasgow bridges had long had an unsavoury reputation as meeting places for pushers, addicts and, of course, the homeless who could sometimes be counted in the latter category. Yes, there were other areas he could look at. However he would need to ask a lot of questions about the victims and about any previous crimes involving GHB before he could be confident that some pattern might emerge.
Rosie smiled fondly. The room was silent but it was a busy silence, as she knew from past experience. The cogs would be whirring in that clever brain of Solly’s and he’d be immersed in this case before bedtime, she was sure. Fixing her reading glasses onto the bridge of her nose, the pathologist returned to the paper she was reading. It would need a few tweaks here and there but the essence of her lecture was pretty sound. Still smiling, Rosie sank down into the armchair by the fire. To the outside world theirs might seem an unusual relationship: the pocket-blonde pathologist whose outgoing manner contrasted with Solly’s quiet seriousness. How odd that fate should have thrown them together. And yet, was it really so strange? After all, weren’t they both involved in probing deeply within the hidden recesses of death? Rosie gave herself a little shake. It was good to have her lover involved with a case again. If anyone could come up with an idea about these two GHB deaths then surely it was Dr Solomon Brightman.
CHAPTER 28
George Parsonage drew up a chair nearer the fire. ‘Tea or coffee, Dr Brightman?’ The man opposite smiled back at him, his dark eyes twinkling under their luxuriant lashes. ‘That would be lovely, thanks.’
The riverman shook his head slightly. He’d make tea, then. This chap seemed so vague that he probably wouldn’t notice what he was drinking. Another glance at the man took in the full beard and pale complexion that gave him a slightly exotic appearance but George was a shrewd enough observer of humankind to notice the intelligence shining at him from behind those horn-rimmed spectacles.
Solly had carefully considered the deaths of Duncan Forbes and Jennifer Hammond; he had been asked to give any rationale as to whether their deaths were related. He had decided to start with this man who was known to Glasgow folk as the riverman. Lorimer’s report was full enough in its own way, but here was a man to whom the tides and currents of the Clyde were an everyday language and Solly had an urge to see where the man’s expertise might take him. There was something about the river Clyde that gnawed away at the edges of his mind. If its water could tell tales …
It was almost two hours later that the psychologist walked through Glasgow Green. It was the first time Solly had been in this part of the city and he looked around at the large expanse of grass, trying to imagine what it had been like in centuries gone by. Women from all over had brought their laundry to dry here, George had told him. On a windy day it must have been like the sails of ships blowing madly across the green, he supposed, a picture forming of a place full of people, full of bustle.
His mind shifted to all the other stories the Humane Society officer had spun around the Clyde, some tragic and others spiked with undeniable humour. But Solly had gleaned what he had wanted: a picture of the river’s ebbing and flowing and its gathering of one man’s body into its cold arms. George had photocopied charts of the tides and times as well as his own report of the day that he’d pulled Duncan Forbes from the river, and these were now stowed safely in Solly’s battered briefcase for further perusal. The background report on the dead man suggested that there was no good reason for him to have deliberately ingested the drug, nor was he a typical suicidal case. What Solly wanted now was a picture in his own mind of what might have taken place after the man had disappeared from the range of that CCTV camera.
The taxi deposited him at the Crowne Plaza Hotel and Solly shrugged his coat closer around him as the wind cut across the river and blew directly into his face. Despite the April sun it was bitterly cold. What on earth must it have been like on that fateful night? Solly imagined the sudden splash of a man’s body entering the icy water: surely he’d have flapped about, calling for help? He’d been a strong swimmer, but that may have counted for nothing given his heavy winter clothing and the strong currents. And if the GHB had so dulled his senses that he’d been unable to make himself heard? There had been a howling wind that night too, according to the riverman’s minutely detailed logbook.
The psychologist walked slowly towards the bushes next to the cycle path. At one point the pathway curved out of sight of the hotel, its strip of pale concrete running all the way along the north side of the riverbank towards the city. Already many eyes had scoured the area in a search for clues as to the exact place where Duncan Forbes had fallen into the river. Did he fall or was he pushed? Solly’s own words came back to him, now utterly devoid of humour. The path wound around the Crowne Plaza shrubbery and took him to the main road leading out of the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre complex. For a few moments the psychologist stood pondering the ways in and out of the area, then he made up his mind and strode towards the City Inn, a more modest hotel but one that intrigued Solly. From where he stood he could see that there was an extended deck reaching out from the restaurant and jutting right over the river. Above it, the Squinty Bridge traced its white arc against the grey skies.
The revolving glass doors admitted Solly into the bright hotel foyer. To one side he could see a figure behind a coffee machine, its hiss of steam creating a halo around the man’s head. A few people sat at tables drinking coffee and talking in lowered voices. It was close enough to the various offices that surrounded this part of Finnieston for people to choose the hotel’s coffee bar for their afternoon break, he supposed.
The barman looked up as Solly approached: his smile switched on like an automatic sensor but the psychologist could see that the man’s eyes were glazed with boredom.
‘One pot of tea, please. Do you have any herbal?’
‘Sure. Green tea, camomile and ginger, strawberry, peppermint or blackcurrant,’ the man replied, his Aussie accent rolling over the choices of teas as if they were all so tantalizing that Solly might have difficulty in making his choice.
‘Camomile, please. A
nd can I take it outside?’
The Aussie’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Pretty cold for that, mate,’ he shrugged, ‘but it’s okay with me. Chairs and tables are there if you want.’
Solly glanced at the exterior deck that was not entirely empty; one person at least had braved the April winds, muffled and hooded in a pale-blue fleece.
‘Does the hotel keep this section open all year round?’ he asked, looking towards the river as the man fetched a small silver teapot from a shelf at his side.
‘Yeah, it’s kind of our trademark, y’know. Ever since the Gazette did that big piece on waterfront restaurants everybody seems keen to venture out there.’
‘Even at night?’
The man grinned. ‘Especially at night. We’ve overhead heaters and canopies to keep the worst of the weather off. Folk seem to like it, y’know, the glitter on the water and all that.’
Solly nodded his thanks and ventured out onto the bleached wooden decking that stretched out around the restaurant area, tray in both hands, briefcase under his arm. The figure on the deck did not move as he paused behind her, wondering which table to select. He took in her polar fleece, its hood pulled over the woman’s head to keep out the cold, though strands of long blonde hair obscured her face, tugged by the wind. Then he noticed her ungloved hands busy scribbling on a notepad. Solly nodded to himself. A reporter of some sort, perhaps? But why sit out here when inside would have been adequate for her purposes? As he moved nearer, curious to see what she was writing, he caught sight of a fragment of a sentence that might have been poetry, but at the same moment the woman looked up. For an instant she frowned as if trying to place Solly in her mind. Had she recognized him? Then, giving her head a tiny shake, she returned to her writing, ignoring the psychologist completely.
