by Alex Gray
‘You’re staring at me, Philip,’ Catherine said evenly. ‘What is it? Have I a dirty mark on my nose?’
Philip blushed and hung his head but was rescued from the moment by the waiter coming to take their order.
‘Shall I be mother?’ Catherine asked lightly. Philip nodded as he watched her pour their tea into deep earthenware bowls. The steam rose, making him shiver as he realized how cold it was inside the room. But then he’d been feeling the cold ever since his return.
‘About Dad,’ Philip began. ‘He didn’t really go on a binge did he?’
The woman opposite shook her head and he was pained to see a single tear trickle down her cheek. ‘Cath?’ he said, not quite sure what to do.
‘I’m sorry, Philip. It’s just horrible talking about it,’ she sniffed. ‘No, I don’t think your dad ever touched the bottle again,’ she continued. ‘In fact I remember he was drinking orange juice on the night that …’
‘The night that he died,’ Philip finished quietly. ‘Cath, what really happened? Do you know? Nobody’s telling me anything,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘I’m not a wee boy any more and I’ve a right to know what’s been going on. Haven’t I?’
Once more he felt his fingers being held in hers.
‘Of course you do, dear, of course you do,’ she murmured soothingly. ‘At the moment the police think that Duncan was killed by somebody, but I’m not convinced they’re right,’ she rushed on, ‘I think it must have been a terrible accident. Don’t you?’ she added, looking directly into his eyes.
‘Well, yes, I suppose so … I mean who would’ve wanted to kill my dad?’ Philip felt the threat of tears and pulled his hands away to fumble in his pocket for a hanky. Dad had always made him carry one when he was a child and the habit had stuck.
Remembering his dad’s face and the way he used to run his fingers through his thatch of hair made Philip bury his face in the handkerchief and choke back a sob. For a moment he closed his eyes, then he turned aside and blew noisily into the crumpled hanky.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, glancing across at his godmother.
Catherine Devoy was shaking her head, her eyes bright with tears. ‘No need to be,’ she whispered. ‘If we can’t cry now, when can we?’ She smiled tremulously at the boy.
Philip sipped his tea then cupped the bowl in his hands, blowing across the surface to cool it down.
‘Too hot?’
‘A wee bit. But it’s better without milk, isn’t it?’
Catherine shrugged. She’d always liked her tea with a good splash of milk, even Earl Grey. But Duncan had been a purist about tea, she remembered. Like father, like son, she thought sadly.
‘Aunty Cath,’ the boy began and hesitated.
Catherine steeled herself for more probing questions but was surprised when he asked, ‘What shall I do now I’m back? Shouldn’t I be coming into the office?’
The woman simply stared at him, a look of utter blankness on her face. It was only natural that Philip Forbes would want to begin his career as an accountant. It had been Duncan’s intention for years to bring the boy into the firm and none of them had objected, especially when he’d obtained such a good degree. On the contrary, all the partners had agreed it would be right to continue a thread of the family line. So why had she forgotten about this?
‘Aunty Cath?’ The boy prompted her. ‘What do you think?’
Catherine Devoy swallowed hard. This was going to be difficult.
‘I think,’ she began gently, ‘that you should look elsewhere for employment, Philip.’
‘But why? Forbes Macgregor was Dad’s firm and his father’s and grandfather’s before him!’ Philip’s eyes were angry and puzzled.
‘Things have changed, Philip,’ the woman began. ‘Listen,’ she said firmly, ‘you’ve always trusted me, haven’t you?’
The boy nodded.
‘Well, I think you might as well know that things aren’t great in the accountancy world right now and Forbes Macgregor may not weather the storm that some of the financial pundits tell us is coming.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘This is absolutely confidential, do you understand, Philip? Word of this in the financial press would be disastrous for the firm.’
She watched the boy as he sat back, frowning. This was hard for him to accept. And, anyway, did he believe her? A slight shake of his head told Catherine that he was stunned by this news but the look he gave her showed more supplication than scepticism.
‘What should I do, then?’
Catherine sat back, relieved. He was accepting her at her word as he always did, thank God. ‘Go into industry. And spread your wings, Philip. No need to stay in Glasgow to work. There are greater opportunities south of the border. Or beyond,’ she told him, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘And,’ she breathed hard, hating herself for playing this trump card, ‘it’s what your dad would have wanted you to do.’
‘But what about Mum? We’ve not even had a funeral yet.’
‘No need to worry your mother, Philip. Just begin to look in the papers, register with a few of the better agencies. I’ll even see what I can find out on the grapevine, shall I?’
The boy nodded slowly. ‘Okay. I suppose.’ His mouth was turned down in a sulk.
‘Philip?’
He shrugged. ‘Bit of a surprise, that’s all. Suppose I should’ve kept in touch more with what’s been happening.’
‘Not many people are aware of all this,’ she answered him grimly. ‘Take my word for it.’
‘Right. And thanks,’ he said, his young face looking up at her. ‘Knew I could trust you to sort things out. Dad always said you were the best brain in the place.’ He smiled.
Catherine Devoy returned her godson’s smile but inwardly a voice was crying out, Dear God! What have we done to you, Philip?
CHAPTER 37
Philip sat back on his heels and sighed. They weren’t in any of the likely places. He’d tried his own room and the downstairs study but nothing had come to hand. The certificates had been put into a blue folder, he remembered. He’d been so certain they’d be in his desk drawer but when he’d opened it everything was neat and tidy, but there was no folder. Okay, he’d been away for months and Mum was a stickler for keeping things in order but surely she wouldn’t have shifted all his SCE certificates and his degree parchment?
‘We’ll need to have this framed.’ His dad’s words came so suddenly to mind that Philip found himself fighting back the tears. It seemed just like yesterday they’d all been sitting around a table in Stravaigin toasting his health and his future. What sort of future would he have now? The bitter thought dried his eyes and he stood up, looking down the length of his father’s study. He ran a finger over the bookshelf behind the huge oak desk. The resulting smear of grey bore testament to the fact that nobody had been in here to dust in weeks, not even their cleaning lady. Dad’s old desk looked exactly the same as it always had, the family photos angled so he could glance at them as he worked. Philip slipped into the chair, drawn by a sudden urge to see what his father had seen, feel what he might have felt as he’d sat here night after night, working on stuff for the office.
He’d never heard his dad complaining about the hours he’d put in: never heard him moaning about work at all. Forbes Macgregor had been such a big part of his life, all their lives, that it seemed wrong that Philip wouldn’t be continuing the family tradition of working in the elegant red stone building by the Clyde. He stared into space, willing some vision of his father to come to him then, to explain whatever had happened, but all Philip could see was his godmother’s face smiling at him.
Right, that was it, he thought, rising from the desk. He shouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity; Dad would’ve hated that. He’d really have to find that folder if he wanted to take Cath’s advice and look for a job. Maybe Mum had put them in the hall bureau. With another sigh, he slouched along the corridor, sunlight from the study window following him.
The bureau was always full o
f stuff that his parents liked to keep. Philip sat down heavily on the carpet and opened it up. Here things were a lot less tidy, he thought as a bundle of papers tied in pink legal ribbon came to hand. A faint smile dawned over his face as he recognized the school reports and the daft hand-made Easter cards he and Janey had made all those years ago. Fancy Mum keeping all that stuff! Philip flicked slowly through the bundle then laid it aside. No. It was definitely a blue folder he was looking for. Opening the drawer wider, he began pulling out what looked like architect’s drawings on squared paper; a project for the extension to the kitchen that had never happened. Maybe his certificates were underneath this lot? Yes! He lifted the envelope bearing the University of Glasgow crest and drew out the paper proclaiming that he, Philip Kenneth Forbes, was now a Magistrum Artium cum honoribus secundae classis. For a second he regarded the parchment with a wistful pride then put it to one side as he continued his search for the other certificates.
Aunty Cath had reminded him he might need more than just his degree when he went for interviews. Some companies liked to know what you’d achieved at school, she’d said. It gave them an insight into your other skills.
Philip pulled out the remaining papers but his certificates were nowhere to be seen. Had they fallen down the back of the cabinet? Kneeling down, Philip peered into the space beyond the back of the drawer. There was something there, he realized, his hand feeling around. But it didn’t feel like papers, it was something hard and square in shape. His fingers closed over the object and he drew it out carefully, the narrow space causing the drawer frame to graze the back of his hand.
It was a music box. He turned the thing in his hands. It was made from heavy green china with a gold lyre embossed on its lid. He remembered this old box. Hadn’t it used to sit on Mum’s dressing table? What tune had it played? Squatting down before the bureau, Philip instinctively turned the key. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he turned the box upside down and shook it gently. A dull tinkling sound came from within. There was a small drawer above the mechanism. Carefully he pulled it open.
There! No wonder it wasn’t working. Those folded letters were obviously jamming up the works. Philip pulled them out then turned the key once more. Strains of a Mozart waltz tinkled out. Sitting back, he listened as the tune played over and over until the notes slowed down and finally stopped. He’d played with that musical box as a wee boy; he remembered the effort of winding the metal key then the sheer joy of dancing round the room with his mother holding onto his chubby fingers. She wouldn’t be doing any dancing now, he thought, putting the musical box back into the drawer. He’d need to find somewhere else for these letters, he told himself, absently picking them up and straightening their creases. They were addressed to Mum, both of them typed on blue envelopes.
A sudden curiosity made him pause. Why on earth had they been secreted away like that? There was a moment of reluctance when all his instincts told him this was none of his business. Glancing towards the front door, Philip listened. Everyone was out and he didn’t expect them back for hours, so why was he so edgy? With a shrug he took the letters out of their envelopes and began to read.
Less than a minute later Philip Forbes sat back against the bureau. All the power seemed to have drained from his body and he felt sick. His brain whirled with possibilities. Mum was being targeted by someone: someone who was stating the most obscene and damning things in such a matter-of-fact way. Had she confronted Dad with them? He looked at the letters in his hand with disgust. No. Not if she’d hidden them. Why hadn’t she just binned these horrible lies? he thought angrily. Then another idea came to his mind, an idea so awful that his whole body trembled with fear.
Detective Constable Niall Cameron leaned back. They’d been over and over these tapes until he thought he’d be seeing them in his sleep. But that was when he’d drawn himself up. What if this repetitive viewing had dulled his senses? What if he’d missed the obvious? The very idea made him go cold. Lorimer would have his guts for garters. So that was why he was sitting yet again facing the television screen, hours after he could have packed up and gone home.
The tape of Duncan Forbes staggering out of the Crowne Plaza had been played and replayed, particularly the actual sighting of the victim, the last recorded image of him alive. Cameron had decided to look elsewhere on the tape, just to satisfy himself that nothing had been overlooked; and now he’d found it. According to the video recorder a car had passed by the entrance of the hotel eight minutes and thirteen seconds before the figure of Forbes had appeared on the screen. Cameron couldn’t identify the colour from the black-and-white film but it was a light shade, maybe pale grey or blue metallic, easily identifiable as a Mercedes SLK Roadster with a registration number that was now written down on the pad in front of him.
The DC lifted the telephone. A quick enquiry and he’d be a little bit wiser.
Fifteen minutes later DC Cameron was staring at the name he had written beside the registration number. A frown creased his brow then cleared as the significance of his discovery dawned on him.
‘Sir.’ Cameron stood in the doorway of Lorimer’s office. He saw the senior investigating officer’s head come up wearily and pale-blue eyes regarding him with barely concealed impatience.
‘You working late, Niall? What is it?’
‘Sir, I think you should see this.’ Cameron handed him a sheet of paper. ‘I ran the Crowne Plaza tapes again and found a car belonging to Duncan Forbes. It was being driven by a woman, by the looks of the tape, though there’s only a back view.’ He hesitated, watching the DCI’s reaction.
‘Who do you think it might be?’
Cameron shrugged. ‘Mrs Forbes, perhaps? We do know that there was a regular taxi service for all the senior staff and partners, but did Duncan Forbes usually drive himself home? We know he wasn’t a drinker.’
Lorimer nodded thoughtfully. Jennifer Hammond had told him as much, implying that Duncan would have taken a taxi anyway. Mrs Forbes had expected that too, hadn’t she? So what had she been doing driving from the Crowne Plaza car park shortly before her husband had left the party?
‘Had she been in the building at all?’ he asked. ‘Do we have any tapes that give us another sighting of her?’
Cameron’s sigh was so audible that a smile twitched around Lorimer’s mouth.
‘Look, why don’t we go through them together? I’m just about finished up here.’ He closed the file on his desk.
‘If you’re sure.’ Cameron brightened immediately.
‘Aye, I’m sure,’ Lorimer replied. Maggie was out at the theatre with a bunch of kids so there was no problem about putting in a few more hours. ‘Let’s see what we come up with.’
‘What d’you think, sir?’
Lorimer frowned at the screen in front of him. They’d gone over this part of the tape several times now, yet he didn’t want to put into words what both he and his detective constable were thinking.
‘Sir?’
Heaving a sigh, Lorimer shook his head. ‘Can’t think why she’d do it. But we’d be derelict in our duty if we didn’t investigate the possibility, now wouldn’t we?’
‘I never actually met her.’
Lorimer gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I did. And I’d have backed my instinct that she was a genuinely grieving widow. But then we can’t afford to take chances on something as flimsy as instincts, can we?’
Niall Cameron smothered the desire to laugh. Lorimer’s instincts were pretty legendary. He was the sort of man who seemed to home in on situations with a kind of moral radar, one reason why the Lewisman had plenty of respect for his DCI. ‘Spouses are often the perpetrators of murders,’ he ventured carefully.
‘Aye and clichés aren’t wrong because they’re so obvious,’ Lorimer countered sardonically. ‘Och, we’ll have to go and see her.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Even if it’s just to eliminate her from the picture.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the video screen. ‘But not tonight. How about making an appointment for us
to visit first thing tomorrow?’ Lorimer stretched back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head. He could do with some exercise after all the sitting. Maybe he’d still make it home before Maggie and have time for a run?
‘Want me to pack this up for the night, then?’
‘Aye.’ Lorimer stood up and nodded to the DC. ‘See you in the morning.’
Philip Forbes opened the door immediately after the doorbell rang. Two tall men stood there, solemn faced and regarding him with what he took to be suspicion rather than curiosity. But after a sleepless night he really couldn’t be sure.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, Detective Constable Cameron.’ The older of the men was holding out his warrant card for Philip to see.
‘Come in,’ Philip replied distractedly, opening the door wider and standing aside.
‘Thank you, Mister …?’
Philip was suddenly aware of a pair of keen blue eyes scrutinizing him. They made him feel awkward and guilty like a ten-year-old kid who’d tried to cover up some misdemeanor.
‘Forbes,’ he replied hastily. ‘I’m Philip Forbes,’ he added, holding out his hand in a belated attempt at civility.
The hand that took his was warm and strong and somehow reassuring. Or was it the gentle look of sympathy that had taken the ice out of that blue gaze? The nod he received from the other man was brief but his expression too showed a kindliness that Philip hadn’t expected from the policemen.
