by Alex Gray
‘Please take a seat. Can I take your coats?’ she asked, lifting Lorimer’s off his arm before he could reply and hanging it on a stand behind her desk. Solomon smiled and shook his head, but unravelled his enormous knitted scarf from around his neck, letting it fall in two garish strips either side of his shoulders. The receptionist frowned at Solly then pursed her mouth in disapproval. ‘I’ll let Mr Barr know you’re here then,’ she said firmly, motioning the visitors towards the seating area.
Lorimer listened as she spoke into the telephone, noticing how her Glasgow accent changed to a more formal tone. The woman caught his eye to let him know their arrival had been dealt with and he smiled back at her. She reminded him of someone, but for the moment he couldn’t think who it was. Lorimer studied the receptionist as she continued to answer calls. She was a slightly built, middle-aged woman whose sharp features and determined mouth brooked no nonsense. Her short grey hair and olive cardigan were neat but unprepossessing. Most receptionists nowadays seemed turned out from the same sleek mould of perfect makeup, sharp suits and long, straightened hair so it was interesting to see that Forbes Macgregor had deviated from that image. It showed something like confidence, Lorimer thought, as they waited for the managing partner to appear. Perhaps it was a deliberate attempt to show their clientele that this was an old-established firm with traditional values. He smiled to himself at his attempt to read something into a seemingly insignificant situation. Maybe it was Solly’s influence. They were probably short-staffed and the woman was merely filling in.
The movement from the swing doors alerted Lorimer and he looked up to see the managing partner coming towards them, the smile and outstretched hand tokens of welcome.
‘This is Dr Brightman from the University of Glasgow. He’s helping us with our investigation,’ Lorimer explained. The two men shook hands briefly and then Barr turned abruptly on his heel.
‘Good to see you, Chief Inspector … Doctor,’ Alec Barr began. ‘We all hope this dreadful matter can be resolved as soon as possible.’ The man’s voice lowered in deference to the dead woman, reminding Lorimer of the first time he had seen Jennifer Hammond. Her red hair and winning smile suddenly flashed through his mind. Following Barr into the main office area, Lorimer was aware of his fists clenched in anger at whoever had taken away the life of such a vibrant woman. He took several deep breaths. This was going to be a difficult meeting and he required clarity, not passion, in order to focus on each of Forbes Macgregor’s four remaining Glasgow partners.
‘After you, gentlemen.’ Barr stepped aside and ushered Lorimer and Solly into a wide room with double windows that faced out onto the river. Around a massive oval table sat three people who all looked up as he entered the room. There was a certain wariness about each of them, Lorimer thought, noting the two men on either side of the table, one rising from his chair to shake the detective’s hand, the other sitting motionless, following the action with eyes that seemed sunk into his head.
‘Graham West.’ The man let go of Lorimer’s hand and attempted a smile.
‘Catherine Devoy,’ Barr said, indicating the woman who now stood near the head of the table, her hands clasped in front of her. Lorimer made towards her but she merely inclined her head in greeting. ‘And Malcolm Adams,’ Barr continued, his hand on Lorimer’s elbow.
The man across the table did not attempt to stand but simply nodded. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said in a voice that was barely a whisper. Lorimer took in the gaunt face and pallid complexion. Unless he was much mistaken, Malcolm Adams was one very sick individual. Had he come in especially for this meeting? Lorimer wondered, but he had no more time to reflect as Barr was now taking his place beside the Devoy woman and indicating that the chief inspector should chair the meeting from the top of the table.
Solly was introduced briefly to the others then took his place to one side in a shadowy corner behind Lorimer where he could observe the proceedings without actually taking part. The woman had stared at him curiously for a moment then looked away as if he was of no significance to this meeting.
Lorimer sat down, wondering where to begin. He’d prepared several versions of an opening preamble in his mind, but now that he was under the scrutiny of these people he wanted to get straight to the point.
‘As you know, there is an investigation under way into the deaths of Miss Hammond and your former partner, Mr Forbes. I’m afraid to have to confirm that this is now being treated as a murder inquiry.’ He paused just long enough to observe their reaction. Barr’s face did not alter at all but the two other men showed signs of agitation. Graham West sat back in his chair, hands out of sight, but Lorimer could almost sense the fingernails pressing into the soft flesh of his fingers. Malcolm Adams had opened his mouth in dismay, his eyes staring at Lorimer before looking at each of the others in turn.
‘Are you sure, Chief Inspector?’ Catherine Devoy shook her head slightly as if there was some mistake. ‘We thought Duncan’s death had been … an accident,’ she said.
Lorimer noticed the deliberate pause in her voice, the subtlest of innuendos. Duncan was drunk, she was telling him. Duncan was an alcoholic. Lorimer looked more closely at the woman who had not simply been one of Forbes’ colleagues, but a family friend, godmother to his son. Her well-plucked eyebrows were arched in a question above a pair of eyes that stared straight at him. Catherine Devoy was an attractive woman in her forties, slim and neat, her dark hair fashioned in a modern cut. This was not the sort of person who would command attention like the Jennifer Hammonds of this world. Rather, she held herself in as if more might be revealed, but only on her terms. Given her relationship to the Forbes family, Lorimer had expected a warmer response from the woman. Her apparent lack of emotion made him curious. How would Solly be assessing her?
‘Duncan Forbes was a good man,’ Adams whispered breathily, his voice weak but insistent.
‘We all took it for an accident, Chief Inspector,’ Barr put in gruffly. ‘Can’t think of anything other than that. Tragic accident. Of course it was,’ he insisted. Lorimer did not reply for a moment. That was what anybody would want to think, he told himself. People always needed a reasonable explanation. Murder was never going to happen on their doorstep.
‘I’m afraid our investigation shows that Mr Forbes and Miss Hammond were murdered,’ Lorimer told them quietly. ‘Probably by the same killer.’
‘No! Not Jennifer!’ Graham West’s face registered a look of horror. Then Adams’ hissing intake of breath made all of them turn to look at him, but he merely shook his head, as if the news were too shocking for words. Barr’s frown roamed round each of the partners in turn. Was he, too, suffering the disbelief that so often followed such dramatic news?
‘How can we help?’ Barr said suddenly, his hands open in a gesture of resignation. Lorimer nodded slightly at the man. He’d been swift to endorse the authority of the police and now he was moving on to the next stage. Lorimer was impressed. It was not surprising that Barr had risen to the top in what was a competitive profession, Lorimer thought. He might mourn the passing of his colleagues but there was no sentimentality in Alec Barr, just a steely determination to put things right. It was a relief that at least one of them was trying to see things from the police point of view.
‘First of all I’d like you to tell me about the night Duncan Forbes died. I know it has not been an easy time for you all and I would appreciate your help here.’
‘Well, where should we begin?’ Barr asked, folding his arms.
Lorimer smiled thinly. ‘At police headquarters, Mr Barr. We would like to speak to every one of you in private.’
‘So why bring us all in here?’ Graham West protested but stopped as Barr turned a disapproving look his way.
‘To let you all know what is happening in the case,’ Lorimer replied, as politely as he could. ‘It’s rather odd, don’t you think, that three people from the same firm should suddenly meet their fate in a short space of time?’ He looked intently at each of thei
r faces as he spoke. Barr stared at him with the same unchanging expression, but Catherine Devoy had turned away and was searching in her handbag. Malcolm Adams was shaking his head and Graham West sat with his mouth pursed, as if afraid to say any more.
They’re terrified, Lorimer thought, wondering if Solly was sharing his impression.
‘Is there any reason to think that somebody is stalking members of our firm, Chief Inspector?’ Barr suddenly asked.
A good card to play, Lorimer thought, mentally approving the man’s strategy.
‘Surely we’re not in any danger?’ West blurted out.
‘The inquiry is still in its early stages, sir,’ Lorimer replied, answering West rather than the managing partner. ‘We do have several means of determining the sort of person who carried out these acts,’ he added, stifling a grin as he thought of the bearded individual who was sitting in their midst. ‘I would like to ask for your cooperation at every level. While we are not yet certain of any links to the firm itself, there is every possibility that we may need to look more closely at this building and the staff.’ Lorimer paused again. Catherine Devoy was blowing her nose. Maybe her outward calm was simply a veneer? He looked for signs of red-rimmed eyes but could see none.
‘Michael Turner …’ He paused; the temptation to reveal the truth about that corpse in the woods was growing ever stronger. ‘It was after his party that Duncan Forbes died. That’s something we have been examining very closely,’ he told them.
Barr nodded, his face creased in frowns, ‘Terrible business that, just terrible.’ He looked up, ‘And you think his death might have something to do with this case?’
Lorimer inclined his head but said nothing. An ambiguous gesture, it was designed to let them all think what they liked. But one thing was interesting. Alec Barr might present a gruff exterior but, unlike the others, he was finding it far from easy to refer to his dead colleagues by name.
‘What about the press?’ West asked suddenly.
‘We’ve put things into motion so there will be minimal coverage of the case,’ Lorimer told them. ‘But it will leak out eventually. Given a large firm such as yours, it’s inevitable. But we are trying to contain information as best we can,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Meantime I suggest you give every cooperation to any of our investigating team who may be visiting the firm.’
Lorimer watched the effect of his final words. Barr remained quite still, his gaze on the policeman’s face, but Graham West glanced around anxiously at the others who refused to meet his eyes. Malcolm Adams seemed even more tense and drawn and the woman had sunk back into her chair, half hidden by the managing partner’s bulky figure.
‘That you away, sir?’ The receptionist helped Lorimer into his coat, holding it up high. He smiled as he bent his knees to let her slide it over his shoulders. ‘Mind how ye go, now,’ the woman added sternly, her eye suddenly on Solly who was occupied with winding his scarf back around his neck. There was a fearless quality about this wee person, Lorimer thought as he walked out of the office. She’d be polite enough but stand no nonsense from anybody, even a senior officer from Strathclyde Police.
‘That’s who she reminds me of,’ he told Solly. ‘Put her in a white overall and pull back that grey hair from her face and she’d be a dead ringer for Sadie Dunlop,’ he exclaimed.
‘Ah yes,’ Solly’s eyes twinkled in recognition, ‘the scourge of the police canteen.’ He looked at his companion. Lorimer seemed animated suddenly. Had he seen all the signs Solly hoped he had? Back in that room there had been enough material to create a whole term’s worth of seminars on behavioural psychology. Some of the partners had said little but their unspoken language had told the psychologist much, much more.
CHAPTER 34
Glasgow on an April evening was not the grey post-industrial city many people might imagine, thought Solly as he turned from Great Western Road towards the park that would lead to his home. Music floated out from the open doors of a church on the corner, something hymn-like, he thought. Then the sounds were overlaid by the liquid notes of a bird, making the psychologist look upwards. The bird sat on a rhododendron branch, its neck stretched out as the song emanated from its throat. A thrush, Solly decided, noting the creamy yellow breast with its pattern of dark-brown speckles. He passed two schoolgirls who were deep in conversation, utterly oblivious to the free performance being given from the branches above. Each of them wore a black cotton skirt and T-shirt, no sign of a jacket or cardigan to cover their bare arms. Young ones never felt the cold, his mother used to say. He smiled, remembering her voice. A Jewish mother who had never scolded, always encouraged her brood, Ma Brightman’s home had been the magnet for all their friends. Solly smiled again. She’d have stopped to listen to that bird, too.
There was something in the air, Solly told himself as he left the thrush singing its melody over again. Now that the days were lengthening and there was enough warmth to allow these girls to cast off their winter garments, there was a sense of impending pleasures to come: summer was only a few weeks off now that the final term had begun. In London the deckchairs might already be out in Hyde Park. April was a strange month up here. One day could be warm enough to encourage those clouds of mayflies that hovered over the river Kelvin, Solly thought, observing their mad dance. The next day could see snow or hail blotting out the hills he loved to see from his windows high above the city. It was a place of many contrasts, Solly had found, and he liked that.
The psychologist stopped by the front door of the elegant terrace and glanced down at the park below. Already the spring flowers were carpeting the edges of Kelvin Way and the formal beds beside the Art Gallery. He breathed in deeply, glad to be alive on a day like this. Anyone seeing the beatific smile half-hidden below his beard would have known that this was a man at peace with himself.
Rosie was singing along to something on the radio as he stepped into the flat and he watched her for a moment before she turned and came swiftly towards him and flung herself into his arms. Solly sighed happily as he enveloped her in a hug, her blonde head snuggled neatly against his shoulder. Wasn’t it funny how he had never missed having a woman in his life? And yet now he could not imagine his world being complete without Rosie in it.
It was dark outside, the uncurtained windows showing a starless sky, as Solly lay on his back, pondering the events of his day. Beside him Rosie’s warm body snuggled under the duvet, an invisible but vital presence. After his meeting with Lorimer he had been to see the factor of Riverside Gardens, asking to see the flat where Jennifer Hammond had lived and died. There he had stood, silently watching the cars go by across the bridge, a never-ending stream of humanity on endless journeys. The flat itself had depressed him. Empty of any life, the leftovers of her existence seemed to be mocking the world that the young victim had enjoyed. As he lay in the darkness, Solly recalled the sleek kitchen with its functional machines. The fridge was still to be emptied of its pitiful contents: a solitary croissant shedding its crumbs onto the bare shelves below, a half-packet of butter past its sell-by date and a couple of ready meals. Solly had looked intently at the dead woman’s choice of foodstuffs. Salmon in a white wine sauce and a pack of sushi: what did that tell him? he’d shrugged. A predilection for fishy foods wouldn’t reveal much in the way of her character, but it did show that she was someone who probably ate out a great deal and enjoyed the finer things of life. Twin circles on the bottle container of the refrigerator made Solly look closer. The ridged patterns resembled the underside of champagne bottles. There were traces that looked like dried spilt milk, yellowing under the darker patterns, and bits of greenery had been caught between the glass shelving and a grubby salad basket. Jennifer Hammond had not been a domestic goddess.
Looking through the dead woman’s wardrobe had revealed numerous boxes of high-heeled designer shoes; he’d seen others shoved in a jumble of handbags and hatboxes below the rows upon rows of clothes that hung uselessly from their double rails. She’d had a love for colo
ur, a zest for living, he could see that easily from the bedroom’s decor alone. But she’d been a woman in a hurry, never spending enough time on her own to tidy or sort things out. Rosie was inclined to be messy around the flat, rushing off to work and leaving their bed unmade, but this woman’s flat had been a temporary refuge, not a home. Even the exotically furnished boudoir (for there was no other word for it, Solly told himself) had the appearance of a carefully designed place to make love rather than somewhere to rest and relax.
She’d been careless with her possessions but had she also been careless with herself? Solly thought not. There was a lavishness in her home that spoke of a person who had relished her life, not discarded it in an impulsive moment. No. Jennifer Hammond had been murdered, of that Solly was certain. But as he looked into the patches of cloud that were scudding across the night sky he could not begin to imagine who would have wanted to kill the vivacious redhead. Nor why.
‘Right, any feedback from yesterday’s meeting?’ Lorimer’s voice could not hide its eagerness, a fact that amused the psychologist. The DCI would love an instant answer if it could be somehow magically conjured out of the air. But Solomon Brightman did not work like that.
‘Not yet.’ He chuckled, imagining the detective’s crestfallen expression. ‘But I do have some observations written down about each of those four people.’ He paused, reflecting on their responses to Lorimer’s revelation about the double murder case. Some interesting things had been noted but he was not ready to draw any firm conclusions about them. ‘No profile, though, not yet,’ he repeated. ‘When will you bring them in for more questioning?’
