by Alex Gray
Michael’s nostrils twitched with disgust as he peered through the stifling half-light of dusk. There was no air conditioning and the smell of recently cooked burgers and rancid fat lingered in the room. The driver had gone and he was once more on his side, tied firmly to the bed. There was one window set high in the roof, its glazing criss-crossed with wire mesh. Occasionally a crow would scratch its way over the glass, claws sliding on the surface until it squawked away. There was a constant sound of traffic buzzing outside, sometimes the shriek of a siren. But no emergency services ever came to release Michael from his cell.
At first he had tried to struggle out of his bonds, but as the days passed he became aware of a lethargy coming over him, weakness, he guessed, and muscle fatigue from lack of movement. Self-pity washed over him now as the utter loneliness of his position set in. He’d been astonished at how much he’d welcomed the infrequent visits of his captor, though on reflection he realized that the man represented a chance to sit upright, to eat and, most importantly, to talk.
This time the questioning had been preceded by the man washing his prisoner’s face and hands, tending to his rope burns with a tube of ointment that looked like Savlon. He’d been handed the food and watched carefully as he made some attempt to eat it, his jaws sore where he’d chafed against that stinking red neckerchief. Michael had given up asking why he’d been imprisoned. His questions only met with a stony silence.
At first he had protested, had threatened to invoke the wrath of all the gods at Russell Kirkby and Forbes Macgregor combined, then, as time had passed, he had begun to fear his silent captor and had begged for release. But now there was only a weariness and bewilderment as he sought for answers as to why he had been whisked away from JFK to this stinking hole.
It had been several days since he’d emerged into the cold sunlight of the airport, his face turned up to the patch of sky above the buildings, his blood racing with anticipation. He remembered how he’d felt, proud to be driven in that limo along those massive highways, through the streets with their colourful video screens and flashing lights, buildings towering above him on either side. This was to be his city! He’d be a partner within two years, he’d been assured by Alec Barr. Even Catherine Devoy had taken him aside to give him some friendly advice about his career path. That seemed like another lifetime, that brief glimpse of a future that now looked so remote. Michael shivered despite the cloying warmth of the room.
Today the limo driver had asked him what he was doing in the city, who had sent him, what his bosses wanted of him. Michael had answered everything as truthfully as he could, assured, as only the innocent can be, that the truth would set him free. The man had asked more sinister questions. What had he done to upset his bosses? Then that chilling final question today: who would have wanted him killed?
CHAPTER 16
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Rosie’s voice told him.
‘Try me,’ replied Lorimer.
‘There’s no trace of alcohol in the bloodstream of the deceased.’
Lorimer was silent for a moment, absorbing the pathologists’s words.
‘So, what-?’
‘So I told them to run a few more tests. There was something unusual in the print-offs that I thought worth following up. So they did, and guess what we found?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Gamma-hydroxybutrate.’
Lorimer whistled through his teeth. ‘How much? Enough to kill him?’
‘Enough to make Duncan Forbes appear very drunk fairly quickly. He’d have experienced physical disequilibrium and perhaps feelings of illness.’
Lorimer nodded as she spoke. Gamma-hydroxybutrate, or GHB, was a street drug that had been filtering into Glasgow all too often in recent years. There had been several cases of date-rape: one such had resulted in a fatal accident inquiry when a young woman had died as a result of being given an overdose of the drug.
‘Would he have been able to jump over the railings?’
‘That’s for your lot to find out,’ Rosie retorted, then added, ‘but it might have been difficult for him to get over them by himself. He was a big man and the effect of the GHB might have taken longer to achieve. He’d be bleary-eyed and unsteady on his feet, given the quantity we found.’
‘Would you stand up in court and say that?’
‘If I had to. Why?’
Lorimer tapped a pen against his teeth. He’d dismissed the death as accidental due to excess alcohol in the bloodstream and was expecting the report to the Fiscal would say just as much. Now Rosie Fergusson’s revelation had turned this into something quite different.
‘Maybe we will be looking at this as a murder inquiry,’ he told her.
‘Hold on to those Crowne Plaza tapes.’ Lorimer nodded to DC Cameron as he passed his desk. ‘We’re not done with this case yet.’
The Lewisman looked up at his boss, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
‘Cause of death unknown. For now.’ Lorimer stressed the last word deliberately. ‘High doses of GHB in the bloodstream. No alcohol,’ he added tersely. ‘So we’re still treating this as a suspicious death.’
‘Not suicide?’ Cameron asked.
Lorimer shook his head. ‘Can’t see it somehow, unless he was trying to dull his own senses by taking the drug before he tipped himself over the edge. Doesn’t seem likely from what little we know of him. But that will have to change, won’t it? We need to know a lot more about Duncan Forbes.’
‘So you want me to do a background check?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘Find out what you can about the firm, Forbes Macgregor. See if there was anything dirty going on. Anything that would have him desperate enough to take his own life.’
‘But you don’t really think he did, do you, sir?’ Cameron looked Lorimer directly in the eye.
‘No. I think there was someone else involved.’ He shook a small object in his hand. ‘That’s why I’m having this analysed,’ he said, glancing towards the sound tape that held the voice of their mystery caller. ‘See what our other experts can come up with,’ he added wryly.
It was after eight when Lorimer eventually locked the car and strolled up towards his own front door. As he turned the key in the lock he could hear music coming from the sitting room. Maggie was home. He grinned to himself. Coming home since that wonderful day when his wife had arrived back in February had been a joy compared to the long months when she had been teaching overseas.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, how’s my man? Ready for some dinner?’
Lorimer chuckled. Maggie looked out from the kitchen and waved a wooden spoon in her husband’s direction. Something smelled good.
‘You bet. Haven’t had anything since breakfast.’
‘Not even time for one of Sadie Dunlop’s famous Danish pastries in the canteen?’
‘Nope. Too busy working.’
‘Hm. Why does that not surprise me? Mitchison making you decimate what remains of the rainforests, then?’ she asked wryly.
‘Actually, no.’ Lorimer had made his way to the kitchen where Maggie was stirring spices into what he hoped was chicken curry. His arms encircled her waist and gave a squeeze. ‘Working on a possible murder case,’ he murmured, nuzzling her neck. He felt her sigh as she leaned back against his body, a gesture that held the promise of good things to come.
‘Don’t tell me. At least save the gory bits for when it’s all over.’ She stepped out of his grasp and laid down the spoon. ‘Ten minutes and it’s ready. Okay? Just let me re-heat this rice.’
Lorimer smiled and wandered through to their sitting room. There was the usual mess of books and folders, waiting for his wife’s red marking pen, beside her favourite armchair and several days’ worth of newspapers. The place had become a total shambles during Maggie’s absence until Lorimer had sought the services of a cleaning woman. Jean still came in twice a week and was a godsend as far as they were concerned. Lorimer sank into the chair opposite the television, stretchi
ng his long legs in front of him.
‘How was your day?’ he called through. ‘Any horror stories?’
‘Yep. This was our day to take the fourth years on a trip to the local youth theatre. All very cultured except when Jo-Anne Dury was sick on the bus home and Raymond Flannigan started dropping hints that she might be pregnant. What a shower! I tell you, these kids can be really nasty sometimes.’
‘Not like the angels back in Florida, then?’
‘Don’t start. “You know I’ve got certain misgivings about this exchange programme, but on the whole I really think it was a positive experience.”’ Maggie put on what Lorimer called her ‘please miss’ voice. She’d had to give several talks about her time in the US and had tried to be honest about her stay overseas, but admitting that she’d been terribly homesick was not what the exchange programme’s organizers had had in mind. Lorimer smiled to himself. Maggie had taken the decision to work in the US for an academic year after a period of restlessness. It had been caused in no small way by his own horrendous working hours and the resulting lack of a decent social life. He’d spent Christmas with her in Florida, and after the holiday, the parting had been even harder than when she had first left. But that, thank God, was behind them now.
‘Okay. That’s it ready. Come on through.’
Wiping his lips with a napkin, Lorimer gave a sigh. ‘That was great. Best ever.’
‘Glad you liked it. Listen, while I’ve got you in a good mood, any thoughts on a summer holiday?’
‘Actually I’ve put in for leave the first two weeks of July. Where do you fancy going? Portugal again?’
‘Oh, I’ve missed Scotland so much this last year. I can’t bear the thought of flying off anywhere else. Skye, maybe? Or Wester Ross?’
‘Wherever you want,’ Lorimer told her. ‘But don’t forget it’ll be midgie season!’
‘Hey, after all those months of mossies, our wee midges will be a doddle.’ His wife put on a mock-Highland accent that made him laugh. She was good at voices. He could imagine her pupils being enraptured whenever Mrs Lorimer read to them.
‘How about looking on the Net to see what I can find? A cottage somewhere, maybe. Or would madam prefer a posh hotel?’
‘A cottage. I’m not sharing you with anything but the midges, William Lorimer.’
After he had cleared the supper dishes away and his wife had disappeared into the study, Lorimer sank back in an armchair with a smile on his face. Maggie had that rare talent for making him see the world through different eyes. They’d have a wonderful break together, he was sure. Maybe he could plan things this time as a surprise for her, he told himself, a twinge of guilt reminding him of how it always fell to his wife to book the holidays. Suddenly the picture of Elizabeth Forbes swam unbidden into his mind. What holidays had she planned with her husband that would now be cancelled?
The warm satisfied feeling shrivelled up inside him as he remembered her stricken face and the way it had closed when he’d mentioned the female caller. Lorimer frowned. What if Duncan Forbes had been given GHB in his drink? Had someone set out to seduce him? Or had the intention been much more sinister than that? Thoughts of the Hebrides faded from his mind as he sat there in the darkness, the only light coming from a flickering television screen. Now he was trying to see through those last few days since George Parsonage had brought the man’s body ashore; if only he could make some kind of sense of them.
Maggie sat at her desk staring into space. Funny how a day could change things, she thought. One minute you’re up in the air, the next your wee bubble of self-satisfaction has burst. It had been the kids on the bus who had started it all. She’d overheard their whispering and strained to make out what was being said once the name ‘Mrs Lorimer’ was mentioned. Then she wished she hadn’t. It was only kids talking, surely? But was there any substance to their gossiping? ‘Bet he’s been having a bit on the side when she was away,’ one of them had sniggered.
‘Aye, just like what goes on in The Bill,’ another had laughed, her voice just raised enough to ensure that Maggie had heard. It was just some nasty-minded wee lassies trying to get her back for something, she told herself. Nothing to lose sleep over, nothing at all.
CHAPTER 17
‘The police will be paying us a visit later this week. It will probably be just a routine affair but I want us to be prepared.’ Alec Barr looked over his spectacles, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting in the middle. There was an edge to his tone that brooked no opposition. Catherine Devoy crossed then uncrossed her legs. She desperately wanted to catch the others’ eyes but, as Barr pinioned them with his glare, there was no hope of any silent communication going unnoticed. She thought she heard Malcolm give a sigh but maybe it was just the sound of traffic several floors below. Looking down she caught sight of their feet: Graham’s well-polished black Italian shoes next to Malcolm’s Oxford brogues. You could always tell something about a person from their choice of footwear, Catherine thought absently, suddenly realizing with a pang that she could not remember a single thing about what sort of shoes Duncan had worn.
‘We’ve had several meetings about our problem over the past two months, none of which have been minuted, naturally.’ Barr smiled sourly, staring into the eyes of each of his partners. This time Catherine did sense Malcolm shifting uneasily. Her eyes flicked to the man by her side. Malcolm Adams sat bolt upright, his arms crossed in front of him as if his body would fall apart should he let them go. His pale blond hair was cropped short to hide the receding widow’s peak, revealing a pulse throbbing visibly at his temple. Catherine took in the skin stretched tight over high cheekbones. He’d lost weight, she realized with a start. Why hadn’t she noticed that before now? What had been the cause of that? she asked herself. Something on his mind that he’d been unable to share with the others, perhaps?
‘I want us all to be quite clear about this matter.’ Barr was tapping his finger on the edge of his desk, drawing her attention back to the senior partner. ‘No one is to mention anything about the firm’s … difficulties.’ He smiled a crocodile smile that failed to reach his eyes and Catherine shuddered in spite of herself.
‘We’re all implicated by this. And we’ll simply have to stick together. For all our sakes,’ Barr added, giving Catherine a gimlet stare. She tried to return his smile but failed, recognizing the senior partner’s threat for what it was.
Their futures were supposed to be safe now, but she had never felt so vulnerable, nor so afraid.
CHAPTER 18
‘What about the funeral?’ Janey asked. There was a pause before her brother’s voice came back, muted by the airport noises around him. ‘I’ll be home tomorrow, then we can make plans.’ There was another silence, then, ‘How’s Mum?’ Philip asked.
‘How d’you think?’ came the retort. ‘Not sleeping, not eating, cries all the time. I’m at my wits’ end what to do for her. If it wasn’t for the baby I’d be worried that she’d do herself some mischief.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Well, it’s true. Wait till you see her.’
‘How are you, Janey?’ her brother asked, more softly this time.
‘Okay. Colin’s bringing over more stuff tonight. We’re staying here with Mum for as long as she needs us.’
‘Good. At least you’ve got him around, and the wee one.’
‘Look, I have to go now. Betsy’s awake and I don’t want Mum to have to go up and fetch her all the time — she’s worn out enough as it is.’
‘Okay, see you the day after tomorrow.’ Philip Forbes hung up and turned back into the heat of the airport.
It seemed totally unreal. Here he was killing time in this sweltering part of Africa, his recent safari adventures already receding into the background, and his father was dead. Drowned in the Clyde. What on earth had happened in Glasgow to cause such a terrible tragedy? Dad was the best swimmer he knew. Had he fallen and hit his head on something? Janey had been very cagey about it all and now that the initial
shock had worn off, Philip found himself questioning her reticence. Was there something he wasn’t being told? As the younger sibling he was accustomed to being fobbed off, and normally he didn’t mind, but this was different. Now he needed to know every detail for himself to try to recreate the awful thing that had happened to his father. The young man wiped the sweat that beaded his forehead. The air conditioning inside the terminal building was erratic and his shirt was already showing patches of dampness.
Maybe Catherine would know more, he thought suddenly. After all, she was his godmother. Cheered by the prospect of talking to his father’s business partner, Philip Forbes sat up straighter and walked back to the telephone kiosk. He glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time before his flight and Catherine Devoy was likely to be in the office just now.
*
Ten minutes later the young man slumped back into the line of bench seats, his backpack by his side. She’d been there, all right. But what little his godmother had told him made Philip Forbes feel even more helpless and remote. Catherine had spoken gently to him, but that had only made it worse. As far as they could tell, the signs all pointed to Dad having gone on a bender and falling into the river after a late-night party. The boy’s fists clenched. How could he? After all his promises and years of abstinence; how could his father have thrown it all away? Tears pricked the back of his eyes and he had to swallow hard. It wouldn’t do to come over all emotional in a public place. He should be furious with his father: spoiling life for them all, making his mum a quivering wreck, cutting short his own time in Africa. He should feel angry, he should be picturing the final staggerings of a drunk man tipping himself over into a dark and sinister river.
Yet, try as he might, all Philip could see in his mind’s eye was a man laughing as he ran up a grassy hill hand-in-hand with his little boy, pulling a home-made kite behind them.
