The Riverman lab-4

by Alex Gray

  ‘Soon. I’ll let you know. You can be there, I presume?’ Lorimer asked, a new edge to his voice.

  ‘Oh, yes. Just let me know when, so I can rearrange my timetable,’ Solly told him politely. He could hear the frustration in Lorimer’s voice as the telephone call ended. Smiling to himself, Solly nodded. So much could be gleaned from the disembodied human voice. He would be interested to know how a sound analyst might interpret the DCI’s conversation.

  The psychologist sat staring into space. Before him the computer screen showed a map of the river Clyde with several large dots placed at strategic points. Those dots indicated the places around the river associated with the murders and just this morning a new circle had been added, that of Graham West’s penthouse flat. It was close to the human resource manager’s home, perhaps less than a ten-minute walk through the car park at Springfield Quay and past the cinema. According to their information, Jennifer Hammond had left the party with Michael Turner and had later gone back to her own flat. Where had West been? It would be interesting to find out what had happened to the members of Forbes Macgregor’s party as they’d made their various ways home. And what Graham West had been doing the night of the woman’s murder. He recalled the horror in the man’s voice as he’d blurted out, ‘No! Not Jennifer!’ That had given something away. He’d not wanted to make a connection between the death of the woman and his partner, Duncan Forbes. But did that mean he knew nothing about their deaths? ‘Duncan Forbes was a good man,’ Malcolm Adams had insisted in that throaty voice. So good that he didn’t deserve to die, he might have added. Or was he trying to tell them that within that boardroom there was one among them who was the perfect antithesis of goodness?

  CHAPTER 35

  Graham West raised the lid of the laptop and pressed the ‘on’ button.

  What on earth was going on here? That policeman had referred to Michael Turner’s murder. He was dead; of course he was. Watching the screen flick through the preliminaries, West chewed his lip nervously. Would there be another message for him? Could a dead man really make contact from the other side? He shuddered as the thought washed over him, then gave himself a mental shake. This was just silly. Michael was gone and someone was playing games with him. But they were dangerous games and he’d be a fool to ignore them.

  There were several emails but none from his mysterious correspondent, West noted with relief. A glance at his wristwatch told him it was two-thirty in the morning New York time. But why should he assume the messages were coming from across the Atlantic? Just because the guy used Michael’s name didn’t mean he was over there, did it? The return address was so encrypted that it would be impossible for an amateur like him to trace. But would it be beyond their own IT experts? Graham West drew a deep sigh. It was far too risky. Nobody could be party to what had been going on in his life these past few months, nobody. And yet someone out there had revealed that they had enough information to make him pay dearly for it.

  The door creaked once and the man stood still, holding his breath. The silence was so intense it was almost tangible. Back in the city he had wept with frustration at the constant wail of police sirens and loud shouting from the streets. For a moment he remembered his own flat in Glasgow’s Merchant City. There the night noises were friendlier: happy drunks staggering past after closing time, the sound of pigeons scratching on his windowsill, the woman downstairs singing to her wee baby. The tenement where he’d lived contained a hotch-potch of people, from student rentals to the newer residents like Michael who had invested before they were priced out of the market. And he’d been so keen to get away from all of that, he thought. Going to seek pastures new, the Big Apple. God! What he’d give to turn back the clock and be in Glasgow now.

  Unbidden, Michael gave a sob then stopped in horror as the sound seemed to fill the space outside the room. To waken JJ might be more than his life was worth. Literally. The bathroom was at the end of a narrow corridor. All he needed to do was have a swift look around for another telephone point somewhere down low near the skirting board. Then he’d flush the toilet and JJ would assume he was taking a leak. Michael blinked, peering through the darkness. There was no artificial light outside in this remote hideaway but he could see a pale stream of moonlight wash through the bathroom window. He hunkered down, trying to make out any tell-tale crevices along the wall but there were none that he could see. Might as well have a piss, he thought, realizing that nerves had made his bladder full.

  The trickle of water into the bowl sounded suddenly loud and he wondered if his captor would come running along the corridor, gun in hand. For a moment the image made him want to giggle, it was so absurd. But the moment died as he pulled up his trousers. This was mad, but not in any way funny. What he had found out in Glasgow was having serious repercussions in this backwoods shanty. Duncan Forbes had said it would be all right, but he had lied. It was most definitely not all right and now he was somewhere in the southern states of America with a hired killer who was trying to blackmail one of Duncan’s partners.

  He pulled the chain and heard the water thundering from the cistern.

  ‘Feelin’ hungry?’

  Michael jumped at the voice behind him, then turned to see JJ’s unshaven face grinning at him from the corridor. The moonlight glinted off the weapon in his hands.

  ‘Fancy somethin’ myself. How about it?’

  Michael hesitated, his eyes on the gun.

  ‘Go fix us a sandwich and a beer,’ JJ commanded, watching as Michael backed out of the bathroom and felt his way back up the corridor in the dark.

  Michael made his way slowly towards the kitchenette, hand trailing against the wall. JJ had to go to the toilet some time and now was the best chance he’d have to locate a telephone point. Switching on the light, he eyed the counter where the bags of groceries had been. There was an old-fashioned Dualit toaster and a stack of crockery under the overhanging shelves. Frantically he searched the entire room, but there was nothing.

  Hearing the sounds from the bathroom, he whipped open the refrigerator door and began pulling out the makings of a snack. The bread rolls were in the salad compartment and as he bent to pull them out it dawned on him that he couldn’t see where the appliance was plugged in. He shuffled on his knees, craning his neck around to see the space behind the fridge.

  For a moment he was disappointed, but then he saw it. Under what must have been years of dirt and thick layers of cobwebs, the electric cable was plugged into the wall at the back. And right next to that was an empty telephone socket.

  JJ’s footsteps brought Michael to his feet and he threw some salad into the sink and turned on the cold tap, first rinsing the dustballs off his fingers. He sensed the man standing in the doorway but did not turn around, making a show of running each lettuce leaf under the water. Michael realized that he had been holding his breath as he heard JJ grunt and move on down the corridor. He finished making up the rolls, pulled out a couple of cans then carried the lot back through to the main living room.

  The older man had lit the paraffin lamp next to the window, creating a reflection of the interior. One false move on his part and JJ would see him. Best to play dumb for now, Michael thought, sitting back into the chair where he had fallen asleep some hours before. He had found one thing that might bring him closer to escaping this gunman. A little more patience and he might just find the handset that had been plugged into that disused telephone socket.

  ‘You’re slipping, pal.’ The man slapped Graham West on the shoulder as they left the squash court. West mustered a grin to Frank who was whistling cheerfully on his way to the locker room, but his expression changed to one of anxiety as soon as the other man was out of sight.

  He was slipping. It was true. West had to admit that he wasn’t able to concentrate on anything, especially at work. The deadlines for reports had come and gone and still they sat in his desk drawer. He wasn’t sleeping at night, despite the large amount of brandy he’d consumed; alcohol might dull the senses b
ut it only seemed to keep him in a state of permanent half-wakefulness. A bad conscience, his granny would have told him. And she’d be right.

  West towelled his hair slowly, feeling the ache in his skull. He hurt all over these days. It was as if his former level of fitness had suddenly deserted him, leaving him with a body that seemed unfamiliar, alien. Was this what happened when insanity took a hold of you? Did your physical self disintegrate along with your mental faculties? Get a grip, he told himself fiercely. This will all go away in time. Just ignore it. No one can hurt you. It’s only words.

  But the words had become more and more menacing and West no longer knew whether he could take the risk of refusing to meet the demands of this person who used the name of a dead man.

  ‘He’s bitten!’ JJ’s glee could not be contained.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  JJ looked over his shoulder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Your pal back in Scotland. He’s coming up with the goods.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Banking on the net. Simple as taking candy from a baby,’ he crowed.‘My account’ll show a certain … increase in funds, then I take off for the good life,’ JJ told him.

  What about me? Michael Turner wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat. That was a question that didn’t need any answer. Now that his usefulness was at an end, why should this thug bother to keep him alive?

  CHAPTER 36

  ‘Aunty Cath?’

  ‘Is that you, Philip? Are you home?’

  ‘I’ve been home for a few days, actually. Just got round to calling you, that’s all.’

  Catherine Devoy listened to the catch in her godson’s throat. He was trying to sound grown up, be the man of the house, but the gruffness failed to mask the yearning in his voice. Whenever things went wrong Philip had always called her: exam results, the problems with Duncan over this gap year. Once he’d even asked her advice about girls. Catherine’s face softened as she imagined the boy standing in the hallway of Mansewood. She’d always been fond of Philip, especially as a baby. She had been happy to babysit for them in the days when Liz and Duncan had been enjoying themselves at all those corporate bashes, and the two Forbes children had always called her ‘Aunty’ as if she had really been one of the family.

  That had been part of the trouble, Catherine acknowledged to herself; having a ready-made family and none of her own. Had that been the underlying reason why she’d never come to the marriage bed? Had her life been too convenient; a lover who was inaccessible and a career that gave her so much satisfaction?

  ‘Aunty Cath? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Philip,’ Catherine Devoy sighed. This was going to be difficult. ‘What can I do for you?’

  There was a silence, then, ‘Do for me? I didn’t ring you to ask for anything.’ The boy’s voice rose in irritation. ‘I just wanted to talk to you. About Dad,’ he added finally.

  Catherine sighed again. ‘Of course you do, dear, but the phone’s maybe not the best way to have a discussion like this. How about meeting up? Can you come into town or would you like me to come over after work?’ She crossed her fingers. Say you’ll come in, she begged silently. Say you’ll come in.

  ‘Don’t mind, really. Mum and Janey are here all day with the baby. Wouldn’t mind getting out for a bit, to be honest.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. Catherine smiled. Philip wouldn’t want to offend his mother or sister by letting them hear his last words. How like Duncan he was in that respect: a decent, nice young man who only wanted to make his family happy and proud of him. Duncan had been just the same in the old days when she’d first known him.

  ‘Well, how about this afternoon? We could meet up town somewhere.’ She thought quickly. It would have to be somewhere private where the boy could open his heart to her. ‘Do you know Tchai-Ovna?’

  ‘Oh, that wee place off Gibson Street? The one where we heard that old poet?’

  ‘That’s the one. See you … about three o’clock, say?’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy replied, a new jauntiness in his tone. ‘It’ll be great to see you, Aunty Cath.’ There was another pause. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  The woman put down the phone then slumped over her desk. God, she was weary! It took all her reserves of strength just to get up in the morning, go to work and remember that she would never see Duncan Forbes again. Now she had to face his son. How on earth would she find the answers to any questions he might ask when she was too afraid to confront them herself?

  The different scented teas and home baking gave the place a warm and comforting feel, thought Philip Forbes as he ducked his head under the low entry. Tchai-Ovna had been a regular student hang-out for many of his female friends at Glasgow University; Philip could recall nights gathered around the mismatched tables and oriental couches where they’d spent hours putting the world to rights. And there had been that time with Aunty Cath when he’d listened to recitations from Edwin Morgan. He’d not understood everything but had picked up the gist of what was being read. Some of it had been unsettling and, remembering that, Philip suddenly felt the same emotion of unease wash over him.

  There were several people in the tea room already so Philip chose an empty corner-table where he could watch the doorway to see his godmother arrive. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the posters advertising literary readings and musical events. Behind him was an elevated area consisting of squashy cushions. It had probably been a bed recess before the old tenement flat had been pulled about to make it interesting to its present-day clientele. The tiny kitchen was out of sight from where Philip sat but he could hear dishes clattering and voices taking orders for tchais of all descriptions. When Cath arrived they would sit here and drink from some of the weird cups and containers that the owners had accumulated over the years. That was part of the place’s charm, he admitted. His mother, with her preference for Royal Doulton china cups and side plates that matched, would have hated it.

  ‘Philip.’ Suddenly Cath was sitting opposite him and smiling. He wanted to stand up and hug her but he’d wedged his long frame behind the table and she was already reaching out for his hands.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said gruffly, squeezing her fingers. ‘Good of you to leave work and all that.’

  ‘Oh, you rescued me from a very tedious afternoon, I can assure you, Philip. It should be me thanking you,’ she retorted, noting how her words made him grin. ‘Well, tell me everything about Africa,’ she continued, releasing his hands and brushing back a stray lock of hair that had been blown forward in the wind outside. ‘I’m sure you’ve had lots of adventures.’

  Philip Forbes smiled again, ‘Yeah, you could say. I’ll have some great photos when they’re developed. Though I didn’t take my digital camera in case it got nicked,’ he added. ‘I can tell you all my stories then and you’ll see the places and stuff …’ he tailed off. His eyes dropped from her gaze. ‘I really wanted to talk to you about Dad,’ he mumbled.

  Catherine suppressed the mounting feeling of panic that was rising in her chest. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. Forcing a smile, she picked up the menu. ‘How about ordering first?’ she asked. ‘Then we’ll have peace to talk.’

  Across the table Philip Forbes nodded then watched as his godmother scanned the choices of exotic teas and cakes. There was something wrong. Her face bore signs of strain; lines that he’d never noticed before were etched deeply into her brow. The boy pressed his lips together. Nothing would ever be the same with Dad gone: Mum was in pieces, Janey went about like a cold hard icicle that might shatter if you pushed it too hard and now even Aunty Cath had changed. What had he expected? That she’d be untouched by his father’s death? She’d seen him day and daily, though, hadn’t she? Worked with him for years, been part of all their lives, so why had he expected Catherine Devoy to have been immune from all of this awfulness? Studying her face, Philip wondered. Had his father ever been more to Cath than just a good friend and colleague? There wa
s something darker in her manner, he thought, something that told of a deeper sorrow.

  ‘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.