by Alex Gray
‘Two men,’ Lorimer mused, reading over DC Cameron’s report. ‘They both give a good description of them, even though it was dark. Oh,’ he added, reading on, ‘their window was above one of the street lamps on the cycle path. That explains it.’ He glanced at Cameron who was sitting across the desk from him. ‘And you showed them the CCTV footage?’
‘Yes, sir. And they both claim that one of the men was Duncan Forbes.’
‘And the other?’ Lorimer read on. ‘Ah. Tall and dark. Athletic build … already by the railing as if he was waiting for somebody … was supporting Forbes and guiding him towards the bushes.’
‘They both thought Forbes was going to be sick and that his companion was helping him,’ Cameron added helpfully.
‘Yes, so I see.’ Lorimer’s face was expressionless, his lips one thin line of concentration. Then he looked up suddenly. ‘This other man,’ he said quietly, ‘could it have been Graham West?’
Cameron uncrossed his legs and straightened up. He’d been waiting for the chief inspector to put that question to him.
‘Yes, sir, it could. There’s no sign of him leaving the hotel later on. The only sighting we have of West is when he walked out of the side door of the hospitality suite a few minutes before Duncan Forbes.’
‘On his own?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did the CCTV show him returning to the hotel at any time?’
‘No, sir, it didn’t.’
Lorimer’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners as if he wanted to smile. ‘Right. Thanks, Cameron, and well done. This is going to push things forward just the way we want, if we’re in time,’ he added to himself.
Graham West lay back against the leather seat and relaxed for the first time in days. It was all going according to plan. He’d cleared out everything that would link him with the whole sorry mess. Once the plane landed in Sydney he’d melt away into the crowds, just another back-packing tourist. His hand went to the place where he’d put the new passport and he felt its shape against the thin cotton of his shirt pocket. He would start a new life over here as Ray Easton. A bit of a joke really, that new name, and convenient enough for the guy who’d forged it. He closed his eyes and thought of the surf swirling up on Bondi Beach. Not long now and he’d actually be there, free as a bird.
‘Singapore?’ Iain MacKenzie, the Fiscal, asked. He’d never encountered a request like this before. Once, when a tourist had been found dead in Thailand he had had to arrange with the tour company to liaise with an English coroner to bring the body home. Such matters were way outside his jurisdiction.
‘Maybe we’d better wait till he’s arrived in Australia. At least that’s still a Crown Colony,’ he remarked wryly.
Lorimer nodded, checking the time on his wall clock. West’s plane had left London at six-thirty this morning and was due to arrive in Singapore at nearly nine o’clock GMT. A fairly brisk turnaround of two hours meant the ongoing flight to Sydney would arrive by mid-morning tomorrow, though that would be late evening Australian time.
‘See what you can do at your end, Iain. Mitchison’s been on to the Home Office this morning already. We’re waiting to see what transpires,’ he said, mimicking his superintendent’s voice. He sensed the grin on MacKenzie’s face as he put down the phone. The Fiscal was a good sort. He’d pull what strings he could to make an arrest at Sydney airport, but would they be in time? And, a small voice not too far from Solomon Brightman’s measured tones asked him, was Graham West really their killer?
It was lunchtime so Malcolm was quite within his rights to leave the office at Carlton Place, though he felt as if he were sneaking away from the turmoil behind him. He’d managed to avoid speaking to Alec and Catherine so far with all the comings and goings of the morning, which had been made easier by the fact that they’d been closeted together for the last hour. Uniformed officers had been combing the place and looking at various pieces of documentation. He didn’t want to be around when Peter Hinshelwood turned up, but that might not be an option. He hailed a passing taxi and stepped in.
It was a cheek, really, to take a cab for such a short distance and he’d been given the customary glower by the taxi driver, but Malcolm was past caring. His stomach ached with a dull, constant pain. Was the thing growing inside him? The image of a fleshy carbuncle taking up space in his abdomen was almost as bad as the pain itself. He walked along Buchanan Street, no real destination in mind. It was an old habit to wander along the pedestrian precinct to find a good eatery. A sour smile crossed his face. He hadn’t eaten lunch for weeks now.
He’d gone as far as the entrance to Nelson Mandela Place when the lights stopped him and he waited placidly with the other pedestrians for the crossing signal.
‘Wait for the wee green man,’ he heard a woman’s voice just beside him. Turning, Malcolm saw a little fair-haired boy, face raised expectantly at the red light, his young mother holding his hand, smiling down at him. The boy glanced back at her then stared again at the light, willing it to change.
Memories flooded back then. He remembered waiting at the crossing with his own mum. Green Cross Code, that’s what they’d called it. Standing there, Malcolm could hear her voice, see her face, as his earnest expression took in all that she told him about waiting for the ‘wee green man’.
When the light did change, he crossed over in a daze, reluctant to let go of the image. Instead he stopped outside the Tron Church, watching the mother and child disappear into the crowds leading to the underground station. A sharp twist in his belly made him stifle a groan and hold onto the railing beside him for support. If he could just sit down somewhere. A glance at the church showed him it was open for the mid-week lunchtime service. ‘Come Unto Me All Ye That Are Weary And I Will Give You Rest’ proclaimed the poster outside. Well, he was weary, that was for sure, and he could do with a rest. Malcolm slipped inside, taking a leaflet from a woman who was handing them out as the worshippers entered, and sat to one side, grateful for the cushioning that covered the hard Presbyterian pew.
It was a relief to close his eyes when the service began. Others around him stood to sing a hymn that was unfamiliar to him but Malcolm sat on, feigning prayer. Then the reverberations from the organ faded into trembling ripples and he heard feet shuffle beside him.
‘Let us pray,’ the man at the front began, his voice echoing around the walls of the huge church. For a moment Malcolm opened his eyes to glance at the minister. His eyebrows rose a little as he took in the plain grey suit and dark tie. Not a minister, then? Or did they simply not bother wearing their robes for a mid-week service? Malcolm didn’t know. He’d never been a Sunday school kid and hadn’t bothered with any kind of organized religion. Keeping the image of the man’s silver hair bowed in prayer, Malcolm closed his own eyes again and listened to the words.
He joined in at last, mumbling the Lord’s Prayer under his breath, then sat back and listened as the man began his homily.
‘Today I am going to talk to you about love and judgement. God’s love and God’s judgement,’ the man said, firmly stressing the words. ‘What does John tell us in chapter three verses 17 to 21? “For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through Him.” And listen to what else he tells us: “He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe already stands condemned. And this is the reason of this condemnation — the light came into the world and men loved the darkness rather than the light, for their deeds were evil.”’
Malcolm suppressed a whimper. It was only because he’d loved Lesley and the girls. That was all. Where was the sin in that? But a dark shadow was falling over his mind as the preacher continued.
‘We’ve all sinned in some way in our lives, but it will never be too late for repentance. Remember the thief on the cross beside Jesus? He left it almost too late, but the Saviour promised that he would be with him in paradise. So you see, friends, that God’s love is great enough for any sinner. And John goe
s on to make this clear. “Every one whose deeds are depraved hates the light, and does not come to the light, but his deeds stand convicted. But — ” and this is what I want you to take away from here today “- he who puts the truth into action comes to the light, that his deeds may be made plain for all to see, because they are done in God.”’
There was a pause. Malcolm stared at the silver head of the man, seeing its shape change into a shadow, a trick caused by the light suspended above. He could still see its image when he closed his eyes for the final prayer. He felt emptied, somehow, as if these words had cleaned away all his anguish. Had the repentant thief felt like this? He was under a death sentence too, after all. Malcolm clasped his hands together tightly as the prayer began.
‘Father, forgive us for all our sins. You know how often we let you down, both by the things we do and by the things we leave undone.’
Malcolm listened as the voice continued, a gentle yet commanding tone that was some sort of conduit to an unseen God. He was letting the listening congregation know what was right and what was wrong as well as speaking to the Almighty on their behalf. Was that what prayer was? Apologizing for things done and things left undone? Things left undone, things left undone … The words drummed into Malcolm’s brain as if a record was stuck and he couldn’t nudge it forwards. The words of the prayer continued but he couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was a booming in his ears — things undone — over and over again. It was true, he told himself. That’s what his sin was. He’d left things undone. He’d taken the coward’s way out, thinking that it wasn’t so bad. But it had made just as much difference in the end, hadn’t it?
Malcolm was only aware that the service had come to a close when the person to his left said ‘Excuse me,’ in a polite voice and he stumbled in his haste to leave the pew.
Once out in the street, the brightness of the sky tore at his eyeballs and he stood looking upwards at the white clouds and the rays of sun streaming behind them. Dashing the back of his hand against his eyes, he felt the wetness of tears. How long had he had been weeping? He looked up at the dazzling midday sky, totally unaware of the strange looks in his direction from passers-by. All he could feel was a sense of peace emanating from somewhere inside him and the knowledge that forgiveness was not too late. That, and the sudden joyous realization that there was a cessation of pain inside his poor body, gave Malcolm Adams hope and a sudden courage.
Now he knew exactly what he had to do.
CHAPTER 46
The blue lights of the police car were flashing a warning to any vehicles that might come suddenly around the corner of the road. Two officers stood beside the battered white car, one looking along the road for signs of an ambulance. The guy was still alive, he’d felt the pulse beating strongly enough, but the injury to his head looked pretty nasty.
‘What d’you reckon? Will you tell the boss what really happened?’ the other officer stood up from where he had been crouching down at the open door of the damaged car.
‘Got to. Can’t see why not, anyway. Fellow tries to do a runner when we ask about his out-of-date tax disc. What were we suppose to do? Let him go?’ The older of the two men gave a shrug. ‘He’ll be okay. I’ve seen worse. Anyway, let’s have a dekko before anyone else turns up.’
The cop standing against the car’s rear door looked doubtful but did nothing to prevent his neighbour walking round to the passenger door. It gave a metallic screech as he wrenched it open. The entire side of the vehicle had crashed against the cliff wall before coming to rest in the middle of the road.
He stretched out his hand and opened the glove compartment. Maybe there’d be some documents to show just who the driver was. But when he pressed the button to let down the lid, he stepped back in amazement as the plastic bags tumbled onto the floor.
‘Here! No wonder he tried to scarper! See this lot?’
‘When are they coming in?’ Solly asked.
‘West was meant to be in at three o’clock so that gives us a bit of time. Adams and the woman were scheduled for after four but I had Barr down for one o’clock. Originally,’ Lorimer said with a bitter twist to his mouth.
‘Originally?’
‘He’s called off till later this evening. His London boss has arrived on the scene, apparently. No point in giving him more grief than he needs.’ Lorimer shrugged.
‘How did he sound?’
Lorimer paused. His conversation with the managing partner of Forbes Macgregor had been short. He had begun to insist on the three partners appearing at the pre-arranged times but Barr had been equally insistent. He had a quality of authority that Lorimer admired. They were both doing a job to the best of their ability; they both had staff to consider. In the end he had acquiesced to Barr’s request. He had enough on his plate as it was. He’d already resigned himself to being here for the rest of the day and well into the night. Maggie would understand.
‘I said,’ Solly repeated slowly, ‘how did Mr Barr sound when you spoke to him?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘Okay. Not harassed or upset, if that’s what you mean. He was trying to organize things at his end. Sounded as if he runs a pretty tight ship, that man,’ Lorimer commented, looking at Solly. ‘Why d’you ask?’
Solly spread his hands and grinned disarmingly. ‘Just wondered. He didn’t strike me as the panicking type either.’
Lorimer was on the point of asking Solly more when the telephone rang.
The psychologist watched as the creases between Lorimer’s eyes grew deeper. Then the policeman’s face cleared and he slapped his open hand against the pile of papers on his desk.
‘Gotcha!’ he exclaimed, rising from his chair.
‘What-?’
‘Come on, I’ll explain as we go,’ Lorimer answered, taking his jacket off its peg behind the door.
It was not the first time the two men had sat side by side at a hospital bed, a uniformed officer by the door. The patient lying within the curtained cubicle groaned as he opened his eyes.
‘Well, well. What do we have here? Thought you’d gone over to annoy the boys and girls in Argyll and Bute, Eddie. How come you ended up here?’
The man on the bed squinted up at Lorimer. His head was swathed in white bandages with another wrapped round his jaw. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, his reddened eyes flicking across at Solomon. ‘Who’s he?’ the words came out hoarsely.
‘Never mind that, Eddie. What were you doing with all that gear? And, more to the point, tell me about this.’ Lorimer waved a long slim notebook in front of the man’s face.
‘Oh, Christ!’ The man turned his head to one side in a groan of defeat.
‘G21 WST. Familiar number, Eddie?’ Lorimer read the license number off the notebook and grinned down at the man in the bed. ‘Mean anything to you? Customer in a Porsche. Surely you wouldn’t forget him in a hurry?’
‘Don’ know a thing,’ Eddie replied.
‘No? Well, it might come as a shock to you, Eddie, but we do. You’d been supplying something to the owner of this car, whose name and details we have right here.’ Lorimer patted his jacket pocket. ‘So why not do yourself a favour and tell us exactly what you were supplying him with.’
The man in the bed licked his lips nervously.
‘Come on, Eddie, this isn’t just about supplying.’ Lorimer’s tone was quiet but held a hint of menace. ‘We’re conducting a murder inquiry here.’
The man’s eyes opened wider and he glanced again at the bearded psychologist who nodded gravely.
He gave a huge sigh. ‘All right. Might as well tell you. Punter wanted a quantity of Goop.’
Solly caught Lorimer’s eye and frowned.
‘Goop. GHB,’ Lorimer explained. ‘Gamma-hydroxybutrate to give it its Sunday name.’ He smiled down at the man beneath the bedclothes who seemed to have shrivelled up under the chief inspector’s blue gaze. ‘Isn’t that right, Eddie?’
‘Aye,’ came the resigned voice from the depths of the hospital
sheets. ‘’S right.’
‘That explains a lot,’ Lorimer told Solly as they made their way out to the hospital car park. ‘West gets hold of GHB, drugs Forbes and tips him into the Clyde. Later on he doses Jennifer Hammond the same way, only gives her so much that he kills her,’ he continued grimly.
‘Why?’ Solly stopped beside Lorimer’s car. He had one hand on the door handle, his expression puzzled. ‘I can see how he came to do it. The couple who spotted them from the Crowne Plaza Hotel seem to confirm that.’
‘Plus he’s done a runner to the other side of the world,’ Lorimer reminded him.
‘Yes, yes.’ Solly sighed as though Graham West had let him down in some way. ‘It’s just-’
‘What?’
‘West’s profile. It doesn’t fit with that of a cold-blooded multiple killer,’ Solly told him as he eased himself into the passenger seat.
‘Well, profiles have been known to be wrong before, Solly,’ Lorimer told him shortly. ‘And it’s our number-one priority to get hold of West before he disappears.’
Catherine Devoy applied the scarlet lipstick to the brush and bent forward towards the washroom mirror. The face reflected back at her stretched its lips and held them in a rictus as the woman stroked an outline then filled in the shape, a blood-red bow starkly contrasting with her pale complexion. With a sigh that held just a trace of a sob she leaned back and let the brush fall with a tiny clatter, her hands gripping the edge of the countertop. She couldn’t do this, she really and truly couldn’t. For all Alec had cajoled and promised, Catherine felt a sense of sheer misery well up in her at the thought of facing the police. They were trained to notice things: she’d seen it on television, how they played good-cop-bad-cop with people in the interview room. What if they tricked her into saying things she didn’t want to say? How would she answer them if they asked her about Duncan?
