The Riverman lab-4

by Alex Gray

  ‘What does the Crown Office think?’

  ‘It’s to be treated as a suspicious death, possibly a murder inquiry,’ she answered. ‘Lorimer was finding out about that today.’

  ‘And you say he has a bad feeling about this victim,’ Solly mused. ‘Do you think he’ll make a murder case on the strength of his policeman’s instinct?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ Rosie replied. ‘At the end of the day, I think a verdict of accidental death is the likeliest outcome.’ She moved over to Solly, her breath soft and warm as her lips brushed his dark curls. ‘But I wouldn’t mind if you were to take a wee look at the file. Just out of interest,’ she coaxed, her hand finding Solly’s own, winding his arm sinuously around her waist. For one delicious moment his grip tightened then he rewarded Rosie’s efforts with a playful pat on her bottom.

  Solly extricated himself with a chuckle and turned back to his laptop. ‘No thanks. I’ve plenty to occupy myself right now, thank you. Another trip into the world of investigative psychology can wait until there’s real evidence of foul play.’ He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Then I might be interested.’

  Rosie gave a shrug and settled back towards the glow from the fire. There were plenty of times when a body had been brought in under suspicious circumstances and no action had been taken. The law stated that there had to be sufficient evidence of a crime before a thorough investigation could take place. But, as Rosie knew well, Lorimer usually followed his own instincts anyway. She was certain he had followed up the taped telephone message for a start. And she knew for a fact that he’d been asking some difficult questions of the victim’s family and friends. Routine, he’d tell them, but really a bit beyond the requirements of an accidental death. Sometimes they joked about Lorimer’s nose for trouble but he was invariably proved correct, a fact that disquieted the pathologist as she fluffed out her hair in a gesture of annoyance. Better for the poor widow to think it was an accident, wasn’t it? She looked across at Solly, that glossy black head that she loved so well bent over his computer. Who’d want to have the memory of their husband forever bound up with a murder inquiry?

  Maggie Lorimer stretched her arms high above her head and yawned.

  ‘Time for bed?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘I wish. Just let me finish this lot of S2 marking. If the wee blighters had just done what I’d asked them then I wouldn’t have all this correction to do!’ she moaned. ‘Some of them have written at least double the amount I asked for.’

  ‘You’re complaining about that? Thought it was like getting blood from a stone with your second years.’

  ‘That’s the other section. This lot are eager beavers. Trouble is I keep finding stuff that’s obviously copied straight off the Net. It’s a nightmare and I haven’t the time to source it all.’

  ‘You should have a school technician to do that for you,’ Lorimer told his wife.

  ‘Aye, and the day that happens there’ll be two blue moons in the sky!’ She stood up and stretched again. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  Lorimer nodded, looking up from the pile of papers on his lap. ‘Love one. Want me to make it?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘No thanks. Been sitting too long. Need to move myself.’

  A few minutes later Maggie paused, the tea tray in her hands as she caught sight of Lorimer’s good coat. It was hanging over the banister, its hem caked with mud. Where on earth had he been? With a sigh she laid the tray on a side table and picked up the cashmere coat. A quick brush might be all that it needed, she told herself, examining the garment.

  ‘Damn!’ Maggie swore softly. There were dark stains above the mud. Whiffy stains, too. This would be a job for the cleaners. Making a face, she bundled the coat into the hall cupboard and shut the door. It would have to wait till the weekend and his nibs would just have to wear his old jacket. Picking up the tray, Maggie Lorimer dismissed the coat from her mind; she couldn’t be bothered making a fuss. Tonight had been so pleasant and relaxed. Why spoil it?

  Lorimer smiled. It was good to sit for a bit with Maggie. How long that would last, though, was anyone’s guess. Iain MacKenzie had given him the go-ahead and Duncan Forbes’ death was now being treated as a possible murder inquiry. Between the taped phone call and the toxicology report, the Fiscal reckoned there was enough to justify Lorimer and his team digging deeper. Part of him experienced that old restlessness that wanted to be up and off, asking questions, seeing people and places. Then again, he was reluctant to let go of the comfortable routine that had been established since Maggie’s homecoming. Somehow Lorimer felt that this case would prove both tricky and time-consuming.

  Tomorrow, he told himself, it could wait until tomorrow. Then he’d have the team primed and ready to begin a full-scale murder inquiry, starting with the accountancy firm on the banks of the Clyde.

  CHAPTER 21

  JJ raised the gun and trained it upon his victim. He felt the kick on his shoulder as the bullet was fired straight into the man’s chest. He’d used a silencer, but the body made a muffled sound as it hit the forest floor and a scattering of crows took off from the trees, screeching their protest.

  He stooped to retrieve the shellcase then walked calmly towards the spot where the dead man lay, hearing the crunch of oak leaves beneath his boots.

  There was an acrid smell in the air that mingled with the earthy scent that rose from the damp ground. JJ took a deep breath then pushed the man once with his foot, hard. The body tumbled into a large hole and JJ stooped over the grave, looking for a moment at the sight below him.

  The man’s face was turned towards the sky, his astonished eyes now for ever sightless. That was another problem taken care of, he thought. No ghosts would haunt him from now on, not if he could help it.

  JJ gave a satisfied grunt then began to shovel earth back into the hole. A scattering of winter leaves and the grave would disappear into the forest floor, its newest inhabitant lost for good.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Jennifer Hammond stood in the senior partner’s room, one hand clutching the edge of the desk to steady herself.

  ‘His body was found this morning.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ The woman staggered into a vacant chair, her legs no longer able to support her.

  ‘We had a call from Strathclyde Police. The New York Police Department informed them last night.’

  ‘And they’re sure it’s Michael?’

  ‘Seems they found his credit cards and other stuff,’ Barr replied. ‘I’m sorry, Jenny. This has come a shock hasn’t it?’ The senior partner sat watching the young woman as she stared at him, her expression one of total disbelief. Then, as if it had only just occurred to him, he came round the desk and put his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t!’ She shook off his embrace and stood up, white-faced and shaken. ‘Don’t touch me!’ She glared at Barr then straightened up as if mustering some remnants of her dignity. ‘Don’t ever touch me again!’

  Alec Barr stroked his chin as he watched the redhead slam out of his room. It was only natural that she would be upset, he told himself. Michael had been the latest in her string of office conquests, though, to be honest, she had seemed genuinely fond of him. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, he reminded himself wryly. Well, Michael Turner was gone and there was no bringing him back now. Jenny would just have to get over it. Give her time, a little voice told Alec, time to recover her usual, playful self. Maybe suggest some leave; a few days in the sun, perhaps? The villa was not occupied at present. Once she’d had a chance to calm down, his offer of a week in the Cyprus sun might be just the thing to bring his human resources manager back to her senses. And it would not be a bad idea to have Jenny out of the office while the police were nosing around.

  Lorimer listened as his superintendent spelled out the choices.

  ‘The vacancy won’t be there for ever, Lorimer, and I really think you should consider it. Staying here is an option, of course, bu
t we both know your promotion chances will be limited if you do.’ Mitchison nodded as he spoke.

  ‘What can I say?’ Lorimer began.

  ‘You can say you’ll think about it,’ was Mitchison’s reply. ‘But not for too long. I’m happy to recommend you for the post. I really think it’s something you would enjoy.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Lorimer stood up, gave the superintendent a brief handshake and left the room, his thoughts in a whirl.

  He was under no illusion about why Mitchison had put him in this position. Having a DCI who had once coveted his own job wasn’t all that easy for the super. They’d never rubbed along since Mitchison had been promoted over Lorimer’s head, though, God knows, it had been less to do with the disaffected officers than the manner in which Mitchison chose to run his department. The paperwork was stifling them all to begin with but it was the man’s arrogant attitude that got under their skins, especially Lorimer’s. Now Mitchison had found a way out for his second-in-command. A job in the newly formed Unresolved Case Unit had come up, one that required an experienced officer of at least the rank of DCI. And Mitchison had as good as told him it was his for the asking. He felt a frisson of excitement: notorious cases that were unsolved when he’d been a wee boy might yet come within his reach. It was something …

  Back in his own room, Lorimer sat contemplating the painting on the wall. Van Gogh’s Père Tanguy gazed back at him, his barely concealed eagerness to be up out of the sitter’s chair and back to work was, for him, the most appealing aspect of the painting. If he stayed here the paperwork alone might drive him mad. The new unit would offer him new challenges and more chances to be out and about, which was what Lorimer enjoyed most about his job. Then there was Maggie to consider. She’d made it only too clear how much she wanted his career to advance, not out of her own ambition for him but from an enthusiastic loyalty that he found hard to resist.

  Well, he would consider it but right now he had some questions to ask the NYPD about a certain Michael Turner. The accountant’s body had been found in woodland in upstate New York. A hunter with his three hounds had found the grave. Lorimer read over the details again. A white male, shot once in the heart at close range. Identification in the form of credit cards found on the body showed it to be a British citizen, Michael Turner. The victim’s hands had been tied behind his back, leaving no room for doubt that this was a deliberate homicide. Turner had been missing for several days, following his departure from the UK. There had been no trace of the young man since his arrival at JFK airport. Flight lists confirming his departure from London Heathrow and Passport Control showed he had indeed made his way onto American soil but after that, nothing. The NYPD were asking for next of kin so that arrangements might be made for the transfer of the body back to Scotland. There was no immediate family as far as they could ascertain from current immigration records. Both his parents had been killed in a motoring accident years ago, Lorimer read. Then he frowned as the details took shape. His mother had been an American citizen and Michael Turner might have opted for dual nationality. But he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d been too young when the choice could have been made, he thought. Still, even such a tenuous link with the United States might throw something up.

  His mind wandered fleetingly to Florida and his holiday there with Maggie the previous Christmas. Lorimer glanced at the calendar on his wall. Just ten more weeks and she’d be finished for the session. Ten weeks and he’d whisk them both off to a cottage in Mull. He’d made tentative plans for that already. There was a remote place called Fishnish Bay, several miles from the nearest village. The views across the Sound of Mull to the Morvern hills were spectacular, if his source was to be believed. Three weeks of peace and quiet, and maybe a trip to Iona for good measure. It was a place of ancient pilgrimage with gravestones by the abbey dating back many hundreds of years.

  He gave a sigh as he contemplated that other grave, in woods far across the Atlantic. Michael Turner. Strange that he should meet his end in such mysterious circumstances so soon after Duncan Forbes’ death. And could the two possibly be linked? Lorimer shook his head ruefully. Not a chance, he told himself. That was the stuff of Saturday night TV detective fiction. Still, there was something odd about it that made him unsettled.

  ‘Mr Barr.’ DS Wilson reached out and shook the senior partner’s hand. The firm handshake gave him reassurance that the man was perfectly in control of the current situation.

  ‘A dreadful tragedy, gentlemen. We can’t begin to tell you what a shock this has been, and coming so hard on the heels of Duncan’s accident.’ Barr shook his head. ‘We hear all about the violence over in the States but never really think anything can happen to someone we know. But that’s the way of things, I suppose,’ he added, looking at Wilson and DC Cameron for assurance.

  ‘Yes. It always happens to somebody else, doesn’t it?’ Wilson agreed blandly. ‘Now, Mr Barr, what we need to get are some details of Michael Turner’s family. The New York Police Department will naturally be anxious to transfer his remains back home.’

  Barr raised his eyebrows and exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know offhand about any family, but this should soon tell you what you need to know.’ Barr turned to his computer and tilted the screen so that his visitors could watch as he brought up a list of personnel. He highlighted Michael Turner’s name, clicked the mouse and both men watched as the screen produced a blank page. Barr frowned, scrolling down then up again, cursing softly under his breath as he tried to locate the dead man’s file.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. Seems to have been deleted: some over-zealous admin assistant, no doubt, clearing up records.’ He cursed again. ‘I’ll have their necks for this! Michael Turner is still technically a Forbes Macgregor employee. Oh, hold on,’ he clicked back and forth, trying different files. ‘Maybe he’s simply been transferred to the Kirkby Russell site. That’s our US arm,’ he explained. ‘Where Michael was supposed to be working once he’d left us.’ Barr’s eyes were on the screen but Wilson exchanged looks with the DC, wondering if the senior partner’s eagerness to find the dead man’s details was genuine or not. Would Barr be so conversant with such matters, anyway? Wasn’t this a task for a lesser mortal to deal with: Jennifer Hammond, the human resources person, perhaps? Why all this fuss?

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Barr turned the screen a fraction more in their direction. ‘This is rather embarrassing. There’s not a thing about Michael anywhere.’

  ‘Almost as if he’s ceased to exist?’ Cameron suggested quietly, regarding Barr thoughtfully. The other man did not reply but simply stared at the detective constable. ‘Maybe there is a written record?’ Cameron continued.

  Barr seemed to come to with a jolt. ‘Yes, of course. Let me show you through to the filing room. Someone there will no doubt be able to help you.’

  The filing room consisted of row upon row of pull-out cabinets on wheels. A young woman stood flicking through different drawers, a pencil pushed behind one ear and a sheaf of papers clutched under her arm. She glanced up nervously, her dark fringe almost hiding her eyes as Barr approached.

  ‘Emma, find Michael Turner’s personnel file for our friends from Strathclyde CID, will you, please?’ Barr took a quick look at his watch then turned to face Wilson. ‘Sorry, Sergeant, must leave you in Emma’s capable hands. Duty calls.’ Then with a quick handshake and a fixed smile, the man was striding back towards his office. Wilson looked after him. Business as normal, he thought. One partner drowned and another employee murdered in suspicious circumstances and yet Alec Barr simply forged ahead with the day-to-day running of his accountancy practice. Was it sheer callousness or did he really have an overweening sense of responsibility?

  ‘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.