by Alex Gray
Janis was allowed out into the grounds every day now. The gardens were extensive and well maintained by the women themselves. At first she had been wary of these hard-faced women with their hoes and spades but none of them ever brandished their tools as weapons as she’d imagined they might. She walked past them each day, keeping her eyes close to the gravel pathway before finding sanctuary in what was called the family centre. In reality this was a chapel where services were conducted by a friendly priest, Father Joe, but behind the main hall that doubled as a spare classroom was a series of smaller rooms that were kept especially for family visits. Mums would have time to see their children in these bright, toy-filled rooms and for a time it would seem almost like a church crèche. They put on a brave face, these mothers, but once the visits were over Janis had seen them suffer inconsolable storms of weeping. More than once Janis had felt a strong compulsion to reach out and give them a hug, but she’d controlled these urges, fearing the consequences of what a physical touch might bring.
There were other surprises, too. The idea of prison brought with it an image of stern guards who could mete out punishments at random. She’d been frightened of them at first, these officers in black, chained to bunches of jangling keys, but gradually Janis had come to recognise their humanity. Most had a sense of humour and could josh with the girls just as easily as they might restrain them. The members of the medical staff were far and away the best, perhaps because of their different uniforms and the fact that they were there to make the women feel better. Janis had been amused by one nurse who had a predilection for brightly coloured tunics with cartoon animals. It seemed to work, though, and the younger women were more relaxed with her than any other health official.
She lay looking at the light shift around the room. In some ways this was the best part of the day, a quiet respite before the clatter of washing and breakfast. It gave her a bit of peace, a chance to reflect. But that dream had disturbed her and she could still see Nicko’s laughing face coming at her.
All she could think of now was what had happened and, more to the point, what was to come. She recalled Marion Peters’ words: ‘It would be an admission of guilt if I didn’t try to have you granted bail, Janis.’ It was the available evidence that was crucial, the lawyer had explained. Once there was deemed sufficient evidence to link all three murders, the words hammered a rhythm in her brain, she’d be let out, granted bail. That word was spoken in here like something religious. Since Marion Peters’ last visit they’d been watching her, the prison officers, watching and wondering. Why? Were they in cahoots with the police? Did they report back to them for any reason?
Janis Faulkner squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if all these thoughts were flies buzzing around her. She’d go mad if she didn’t watch out. She needed to play it cool now, act as if she had all her emotions under control. That wouldn’t be so hard, now, would it? After all, she’d had years of practice.
‘Anything yet?’
‘Depends on what you’re looking for, Mrs Peters,’ Lorimer replied. He paused, considering. There was no need to go into details about Donnie Douglas’s disappearing act.
‘But my client needs to know,’ the woman persisted. ‘She’s locked up in there for a crime that she didn’t commit, and you and I know fine well there is not a scrap of forensic material to link her with her husband’s death.’
‘She ran away from the crime scene,’ Lorimer began slowly.
‘Because she was afraid of her husband,’ Marion Peters objected. ‘And how do you know she didn’t leave before he was killed?’
‘Mrs Peters,’ Lorimer tried to contain the impatience in his voice, ‘we’ve been over this before. The door was locked and there was absolutely no sign of a forced entry.’
‘And who else might have had a key? Weren’t there key holders at the club?’
Lorimer didn’t answer. The house had been rented out through an agency. Sure, the agents had keys, but only for emergencies. That had been checked thoroughly right at the beginning of this investigation. Peters knew that well enough. She was clutching at straws, but the DCI couldn’t blame her.
‘Look, this is a very complicated case,’ he said. ‘I have every sympathy with your client’s position but until we have enough new evidence to show that the deaths were committed by one and the same hand, I doubt if your client will be granted bail.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re very sympathetic, Chief Inspector.’ The lawyer’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Very sympathetic indeed.’
Lorimer listened as the line was cut, and put down his phone with a sigh. What he would give for something to show that Faulkner had been stabbed by the same person that had gunned down White and Cartwright. The forensics team had been over Nicko and Janis’s place with a fine toothcomb and all that had emerged was that someone had made a damn good job of clearing every trace of blood from that kitchen. There was nothing in the wife’s car, either – even the mess of soggy paper tissues had been scrutinised to see if any traces of blood were on them. Marion Peters was right. There was no way the footballer’s wife should be locked up in Cornton Vale prison if she was innocent. But that hadn’t been for him to decide; that was a decision taken by a member of the justiciary.
For the first time in a long time DCI Lorimer felt that things were spiralling out of control. Solly, who would have been giving him some sort of guidance, was out of the picture and what evidence there was could easily point to three separate killers. And as for Rosie? No, it was better not to think about Rosie.
How had it all begun? With the death of a footballer, he thought. Had Nicko Faulkner been such a good buy for Kelvin FC? And what about Jason White? Lorimer leaned back in his chair, hand on chin, wondering. When it came down to it, each of these new signings was a bit of a puzzle. Why would Clark want to saddle himself with a load of trouble like Jason White? His current mid-fielders were a fairly talented bunch.
Then he remembered. Donnie Douglas had been a new mid-field signing last season. The lad had shown promise, even scoring a few goals. So why go to the expense of buying a player past his prime and one that was never out of the headlines for his offthe-park antics? Had anyone at the club tried to dissuade the manager and chairman from these purchases? And was there any possible link between the two English footballers and Norman Cartwright? It was time to ask more questions, he thought. And this time he wanted the right answers.
CHAPTER 25
Kelvin Park was situated in one of the quieter parts of Glasgow’s West End though it was in easy walking distance of the underground station or any of the buses that trundled along Great Western Road. Lorimer had opted for the latter, leaving his Lexus in the car park, and now he was making his way across the bridge spanning the river Kelvin. He ran a curious fingertip over the wrought ironwork, and was rewarded by the metal’s warmth. It was something he and his pals used to do on sunny summer days, long before their curiosity had been tempered by basic chemistry lessons in high school. They’d warmed their hands up then placed them on their faces shouting ‘Iron Man!’ and running down the road, giggling. Lorimer stopped for a minute, looking down at the river’s sluggish progress. Rocks, usually concealed, were sticking up like humpbacked seals basking in the heat of the day. There was a smell, too, of something rotten and sickly. Maybe it was the river itself, the weeks of drought failing to carry off whatever detritus had been chucked in by the local neds. He couldn’t recall when it had been so shallow.
Lorimer loosened his tie and slipped his jacket over one arm, glancing back towards the west, noting the faded grandeur of grey granite terraces looking down their middle-class noses at the colourful huddle of shops on the opposite side of the road. The West End was a melting pot of classes and creeds, he thought, and as if to sum up its diverseness, a bicycle whizzed by, smart leather briefcase strapped to its rear pillion, causing a small draught of air to disturb the saris of two Indian women coming towards him. Lorimer stepped aside to allow them passage, noting
their heads bent together intimately, their low voices speaking in their native tongue. They were mother and daughter, he decided, out for a spot of shopping if the carrier bags clutched in bejewelled fingers were anything to go by.
Lorimer rounded a corner and headed towards the football grounds. The leafy drives swung away from Great Western Road and marched purposefully towards Woodlands Road and the foothills of Kelvingrove Park. With a glance up to his left, Lorimer took in the curve of flats that dominated the skyline – that was where Solly and Rosie lived, he thought, then looked away, suddenly refusing to pick out the windows of their home. It was too much to bear, this not knowing whether the pathologist was going to make it or not. How the hell Solly was coping was anybody’s guess. Best not to dwell on it, he decided. Instead he swept his gaze across the park and beyond to where he could see the floodlights reaching into a cloudless sky.
As usual, the sight of Kelvin Park filled Lorimer with mixed emotions. His boyhood had been dominated by football, going to the matches with Dad had been the highlight of most weekends during the season. Hot pies and Bovril just didn’t seem to have the same taste nowadays. But the club held more for him now than mere childhood memories; it was a place full of secrets and ghosts that had more to do with the current custodians of Kelvin FC. And if he was right, there were people in that club who were hiding things that could give him a clue about why these three men had been killed.
Ron Clark was standing outside the main door, cigarette in hand. Had he been waiting for him? Lorimer couldn’t decide.
The Kelvin manager stubbed out his fag in the sand-filled metal ash-box, wiped a hand down his tracksuit trousers and took a step towards the DCI.
‘Good to see you, Chief Inspector,’ Clark began, a tentative smile working on his mouth. Lorimer took the hand that had been extended, wondering at the man’s words. Good to see him? He didn’t think so. But folk tended to hide behind platitudes in his game.
‘Any sign of Douglas?’ Lorimer asked.
The Kelvin manager shook his head, not meeting Lorimer’s eyes. ‘Nothing. We contacted his mother in Aberdeen, like you suggested. Don’t think I gave anything away, just blethered on about things in general. Gave her a chance to ask about Donnie, and she did. Wanted to know how he’d been since the tragedies, as she put it. So it’s clear that he’s not been in touch with home.’
Lorimer nodded towards the door. ‘Can we go inside? It’s a bit hot out here.’
‘How about taking a walk up to the East stand?’ Clark suggested, pointing up at the ranks of seats blurred among the shadows. ‘It’ll be cooler there.’
Lorimer spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence and followed Ron Clark around the building and through a metal gate. It was odd to be here, inside Kelvin Park, the stadium yawning like an empty mouth around the pitch. The sprinklers were on and as they climbed up a flight of steep stone stairs he could hear a swish as the water scattered droplets on to the metal safety barrier. At the far end of the park he could see the figure of the groundsman who appeared to be sorting through a pile of white netting, oblivious to any visitors who might be watching him.
‘I wanted to talk to you about the team,’ Lorimer began.
Clark looked at him, his features composed and alert, but said nothing.
‘Why did you want to buy Nicko Faulkner and Jason White?’
The manager sat back further into the shadows, a frown gathering across his face.
‘What a strange question, Chief Inspector. Why does a manager usually buy new players?’ he countered.
‘To improve the team,’ Lorimer answered sharply. ‘But did you really think they would do that?’
‘Of course.’ Clark’s eyebrows rose and the ghost of a patronising smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘But you evidently don’t agree with our choices,’ he said.
‘No,’ Lorimer replied, ‘I don’t. Why spend a lot of money on a player who’s seen better days and one who’s more trouble than he’s worth? I mean, White cost you an arm and a leg, didn’t he?’
‘We considered him a good investment,’ Clark replied, then laughed bitterly. ‘I suppose it’s easy to be critical with hindsight, Chief Inspector.’
‘But it was such a big investment,’ Lorimer persisted. ‘Faulkner’s transfer fee was pretty spectacular too, and you’ve got a really good young squad as it is.’
‘Yes, we have, but that’s not going to get us back into the Premier League next season, is it? We needed some quality players with experience: a couple of mid-fielders who weren’t afraid to go in and make something of the game.’
‘Not like Donnie Douglas,’ Lorimer replied quietly.
Clark looked at him and for a moment their eyes met. The Kelvin manager looked away first, shaking his head. ‘Donnie was a fine mid-fielder, Chief Inspector. But we needed a bit more creativity, if you know what I mean.’
Lorimer thought he knew what Clark meant: for creativity read not being afraid to go in hard, to risk red card situations, suspensions, whatever it took to win a game. White had had that sort of creativity on and off the park. And Nicko Faulkner had never been far from controversy on the pitch.
‘You say Douglas was a fine mid-fielder, Mr Clark. Have you any reason to think he’s unlikely to return to your club?’
Ron Clark looked out into the green void before them, considering. ‘Why should he want to disappear like that, Chief Inspector? Unless he’s got something to hide?’
Answer a question with a question, Lorimer thought. The Kelvin manager would make a good politician. Still, it didn’t make him feel any better about Clark’s slip of the tongue.
‘How did Patrick Kennedy feel about your choice of new players?’ Lorimer asked, turning the conversation back again.
‘Oh,’ Clark smiled properly for the first time, his eyes brightening. ‘That’s an easy one to answer; you see it was Pat’s idea in the first place to go after Jason White and Nicko Faulkner.’
‘And you? What did you think?’
Ron Clark laughed mirthlessly. ‘Me? Oh, Chief Inspector, I’m not paid to think. I’m paid to do what I’m told. Haven’t you picked that up yet?’
Lorimer did not reply for a moment, considering the politics that were involved within a football club. Usually things happened behind closed doors with juicy titbits leaked here and there to the press. He’d not taken Ron Clark for Kennedy’s poodle. Far from it, the manager had a good reputation in the game. Still, a murder case could suddenly strip bare a lot of the facade; it wasn’t uncommon for a man to reveal his innermost fears and desires when confronted by issues of life and death.
‘So,’ Lorimer countered at last, ‘what was your own opinion of Faulkner and White?’
Ron Clark’s smile had already faded as he took in the policeman’s words. ‘If I said I didn’t want them in the first place does that give me a motive for their murders, Chief Inspector?’ The question was spoken lightly but Clark’s expression was deadly serious.
Lorimer shrugged, letting Clark’s own words hang in the air.
‘Okay, I wasn’t happy with Pat’s idea to buy Jason White. I knew he’d be a load of trouble, but I was overruled. For the record, Chief Inspector, I wasn’t totally against the purchase of Faulkner. The man had plenty of style. He was a charismatic player and still had plenty to offer a team like ours. Pat felt he could’ve inspired a lot of the younger boys.’
‘So you don’t think anybody at the club would have wanted Faulkner out of the way?’
Ron Clark turned to look Lorimer straight in the eye once again. ‘No. And if you want my opinion you’ve already got the only person who could have killed Nicko.’
This time it was Lorimer’s turn to avert his gaze. Simply wishing Janis Faulkner innocent wasn’t going to make it true. Like he’d told the lawyer, he needed more evidence to link the three killings. And now it looked as if Ron Clark would be the last person to offer him that.
‘Mr Kennedy will see you shortly, Chief Inspecto
r. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ Marie McPhail regarded Lorimer gravely, making him recall the woman’s expression on that first visit to the football club. She hadn’t been too happy to see Strathclyde’s finest on that occasion.
‘Thanks. Coffee would be lovely. Just black, no sugar,’ he added, sliding open the glass door to the receptionist’s office and stepping inside.
The woman had begun to turn away but looked up, confused as she saw the policeman standing right by her desk, a silent ‘Oh’ of alarm forming on her lips.
He folded his arms and smiled at her. ‘Must be terrible for you having us coming back and forward,’ he began, chattily. ‘Eating you out of house and home,’ he joked, indicating the packet of biscuits that Marie McPhail had pulled from a cupboard behind her desk. He was rewarded by seeing her shoulders relax.
‘Och, it’s no bother to me. Besides, we’re used to the police coming in to do pre-match inspections, and the ones who are on duty on match days are no trouble. Very polite.’
‘Bit of an upset for the club having CID on your doorstep, all the same,’ he persisted.
‘Your lot aren’t nearly as bad as all those newspaper folk hanging around every day,’ the receptionist declared. ‘It’s been terrible here. S’not the same place any more.’ She looked up at Lorimer, an appeal in her eyes. ‘All we really want is to get back to normal, Chief Inspector. We’ll be glad once you get the man who’s done these terrible things.’
‘Think it’s a man, do you?’ Lorimer teased her.
‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘No woman could have done a thing like that, shooting those poor chaps.’ She handed him a mug of coffee emblazoned with the club crest.
