by Alex Gray
‘He goes intae the back shop, like, stays in fur aboot three quarters of an hour then comes oot again.’ She grinned at Lorimer. ‘’N guess what? Harry’s just shaved aff the hale o’ Mr McAlpin’s beard and given him a buzz cut, hasn’t he? Had tae sweep up a’ his curly hair aff the flair, didn’t I?’
Lorimer sat back, taking in this new information, already mentally passing it on to the investigating officers who were out looking for the fugitive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The boy looked around to see if there was anybody else on the patch of waste ground, but he was quite alone. The big black car sat slightly to one side, the ground sloping away under its wheels. It had a long open doorway like that minibus with sliding doors for wheelchairs he’d seen when old Mr Thomson along the street was taken away to the day centre. Only this was a kind of taxi, he saw as he drew nearer. And the driver was slumped across the steering wheel. Funny place to choose for a nap, the boy thought, the driver’s still form emboldening him to creep forward for a closer look.
In a few moments the boy had tiptoed up to the door.
He peered in, shading his eyes with one hand against the setting sun streaming in from the west.
There was something on the floor. He squinted, his brain suggesting that someone had left a big bag of rags in the back. Whatever it was must be smelly for all these flies to be buzzing on top of it.
Then the boy spotted the shoe. And something else, something he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the thing was still there and wouldn’t go away; a dark red puddle that glistened under the sun’s rays.
He began to back away, a small whimpering sound coming from his throat.
Then he turned and ran across the beaten earth, screaming for his mammy, desperate to find someone, anyone who would take away the sight of all that blood.
‘Shereen Swanson was knifed to death by person or persons unknown,’ Lorimer told the assembled officers. ‘The taxi driver, Richard Bryce, sustained one slash to his throat.’ He looked around at each of them in turn. ‘He would have died immediately. It was an injury inflicted by someone big and strong who knew how to slit another person’s throat. Maybe someone ex-military.’
As he spoke, Lorimer had a vision of a big red-headed man, the one who had felled him to the ground in Cathkin. He himself might have been a victim that night, like the unfortunate taxi driver, had McAlpin not been in such a tearing hurry to escape.
The SOCOs called to the country park had taken traces from Lorimer’s clothes. McAlpin might have escaped that night, but at least they had his DNA profile on record, something that might well prove a match with samples taken from the two victims of the taxi murders.
The detective superintendent’s head was beginning to swim. Everywhere he went McAlpin seemed to emerge like some latter-day bogeyman. MI6 wanted to question him about being in a terrorist cell here in Glasgow. So far he had eluded them. That he was wanted for murder was in no doubt, the two young Nigerian girls lying in the mortuary having died because of his fiendish trafficking business. And now there was a link with Charles Gilmartin. It could only be to do with the influx of Africans into the country. Was that why Vivien had been so adamant that the theatre project was to stop? Did she know a lot more about this other business than she was willing to admit? And – Lorimer blinked against the throbbing pain in his head – was Charles Gilmartin’s involvement with McAlpin the reason he was poisoned?
‘Sir?’
A voice seemed to come from far away, and Lorimer felt arms supporting him as he was helped into a chair.
‘Think you should go home, sir,’ DI Grant said. ‘He’s maybe concussed,’ she said, turning to the men and women who were now crowded around their senior officer. ‘Who’s got the doc’s number?’
Maggie pulled the curtains, then glanced down at her husband’s sleeping form. His face, even in repose, looked strained and there were deep lines etched between his eyebrows and creases beside his eyelids. Laughter lines, but when had he last laughed? She bit her lip. Ever since the night of that school reunion back in April, he had been working long hours. Some days they hardly spoke, Maggie already in bed by the time he returned home. It was little wonder that so many senior officers’ marriages ended in failure, she thought, slipping into bed beside him. They were luckier than most, perhaps, without the added strain of children to accommodate into their busy lives. And she had her special friends, other women to spend an evening with at the theatre or a favourite author’s book launch.
It was a pity about Mull, she thought with a sigh, but there was something going on behind the scenes of Glasgow 2014 that was so secret that she suspected there might be some sort of terrorist threat.
Maggie’s mind went back to their last holiday. Hadn’t it been cut short on the day before Bill had been due to return to work? That explosion outside Drymen, she remembered, and her husband giving out a reassuring message to the media. Had that all been some sort of camouflage? And had Detective Superintendent Lorimer become involved in a highly secure investigation into something much more dangerous than the usual crimes washed up on Glasgow’s shores?
Suddenly her eyes flew open. That security alarm man from Folkfirst! How had he known that Mrs Lorimer was a school teacher? Was he some sort of surveillance man under her husband’s authority? Or – and a cold shiver went down Maggie’s spine at the thought – had he visited this house for some more sinister reason?
‘Mags?’ Lorimer whispered. ‘Are you awake, love?’
Maggie curled on to her side, snuggling her body against her husband’s.
‘Yes. How d’you feel?’
‘Still a bit drowsy. But I’m okay. How about you?’
Maggie thought for a moment. ‘Can I run something past you?’
‘Fire away.’
‘You know that alarm company, Folkfirst?’
‘Yeah, we use them at work.’
‘Well, someone came to test the system. Didn’t know you’d asked them to…’
Lorimer sat up, propping himself on his good elbow.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh, but he said…’
‘When was this?’ Lorimer was fully awake now.
‘Yesterday. Just about teatime. Arrived in a blue van.’
‘What sort of blue?’
‘Bright blue. Rangers blue.’
‘Any lettering on the side?’
‘No, come to think of it…’
‘Whereabouts did he go in the house?’
‘Well, everywhere, I suppose. The doors are alarmed upstairs as well as downstairs…’
‘And did he check the telephones?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Maggie frowned. ‘But there was something funny,’ she said slowly. ‘He seemed to know that I was a teacher. But I hadn’t said anything that might have made him —’
She stopped abruptly as Lorimer put his finger to his lips. She watched as he got out of bed and walked slowly towards the hall. Her curiosity fully aroused, she followed him and watched him unscrew part of the telephone handset. As he turned silently towards her, he held out his hand. There in the centre of his palm was a small metallic object. And as she met her husband’s eyes, Maggie Lorimer knew exactly what that object must be.
‘Drummond? Lorimer here. Listen, there’s been a development. Someone tried to run me down this evening.’
‘Are you okay? Did they injure you badly?’
‘No, they didn’t, thank God. Just got a bit of a sore head, that’s all. But I think my home and office may be bugged.’
‘What about this conversation?’ Drummond’s tone was sharp.
‘No, it’s okay. This mobile hasn’t been out of my sight since you gave it to me. You’ll have been told the latest news about McAlpin, yes?’
‘Two knifed to death,’ Drummond replied, and Lorimer could hear the grimness in the MI6 man’s voice.
‘Yes. I was working on that earlier tonight,’ he
said, mentally crossing his fingers and hoping that Drummond would not receive any intelligence about the fact that the detective superintendent had collapsed in the office.
‘Right,’ Drummond said crisply. ‘Now here’s what’s going to happen…’
Lorimer sat in the rocking chair nursing a large mug of cocoa, Maggie having flatly refused to allow him any more whisky.
‘The doctor said it wouldn’t be a good idea,’ she’d protested when he’d picked up the bottle of Laphroaig.
Now he was waiting for two men to arrive, men who would bring their technical expertise to bear inside his home, clearing it of any devices that might have been planted by the men who had wanted to kill him.
Asa sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door. It was locked, but that was to keep her safe, she’d been told. Had that word taken on a new meaning? the girl wondered, hearing the click as a key had turned to shut her inside. A young Nigerian woman, Jeanette, had stayed with her all evening, her gentle voice explaining in Yoruba that Asa was going to be taken to a place of safety. The police would want to speak to her tomorrow, but meantime Dr Jones would take care of her.
Was she going to a hospital? Asa had wanted to know, but a smile and a shake of the head had been all the reply Jeanette would give.
And Shereen? Asa had whispered the Jamaican woman’s name, fearful of the answer.
Nobody had answered. Nobody had needed to. Asa could see the words in their eyes. Shereen was dead and she would never be enfolded into her warm bosom again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
July 2014
‘What’s this?’ Gayle held out the little red mobile, watching her boyfriend’s face intently.
‘Where did you get that?’ Cameron snatched it from her, but not before he felt the angry flush warming his cheeks: the sign of a guilty conscience?
‘Who are all these people? Numbers of your old girlfriends?’ Her voice wavered even as he heard her efforts to sound flippant.
‘Is that what you thought?’ He burst out laughing and the sense of relief on his face made Gayle feel suddenly ashamed.
‘Come here, you silly cow!’ Cameron held out his arms and the young woman allowed herself to be enfolded into his embrace. ‘Silly girl! It’s nothing like that,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Just something we’re working on at the uni. Bit hush-hush, though, so I’m not allowed to discuss it.’
‘Something political?’
‘You could say,’ Cameron agreed, looking at his reflection in the bedroom mirror as he held the girl closer. The sense of shock at her discovery was wearing off now and he congratulated himself on his ability to fabricate a ready story.
‘Oh, I’ve got something to show you.’ She extricated herself from his grasp and pulled an envelope from her handbag.
‘Look! We got them! For both of us. Isn’t it great!’
Cameron Gregson looked at the pair of tickets being waved in the air by the excited girl. He had been told that he was to accompany the two Australians to Parkhead, but the leader had been a bit vague about what was to happen afterwards.
He had a sudden vision of holding Gayle’s hand as the bomb exploded, smoke obliterating the sight of all those people thronged around the stadium.
‘Cam? Aren’t you pleased?’ Her voice sounded peeved.
‘Course I am. Can hardly believe it,’ he muttered. ‘Well done you.’
And as he listened to his girlfriend’s chatter about what she wanted to wear and what they would do afterwards, Cameron Gregson experienced a feeling that was like an icy hand closing around his heart.
The old man opened the door and staggered backwards as McAlpin thrust him aside.
‘What’re you doin’ here? What the hell…’
Worsley’s mouth opened as he saw the bloodstained shirt under McAlpin’s jacket.
‘Need to get rid of this. Find some new clothes.’
‘What if I pick up stuff at yours?’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ McAlpin snarled. ‘Place’ll be crawling with coppers. Get out and buy me some things, okay? And use cash.’
‘What’s happened?’ Worsley looked the big man up and down as he pulled off the shirt and flung it on to the floor.
‘Never you mind. But I need to lie low for a while, so don’t let anyone know you’ve got a lodger, hear what I’m saying?’
Worsley nodded. They had three weeks until the day when he detonated the bomb that would blow up Parkhead Stadium. It had been one of his more intricate jobs. The sgian dubh had been a stroke of genius, McAlpin had agreed. The old Aussie would never know that he was carrying in part of a device that would allow him to set off the bomb. It would be like a ticking clock, except there was no crude machinery within the heft of the dagger, only the smallest components, arranged carefully to match the design that was visible to any prying eyes.
But with the big man here in his home and a meeting maybe scheduled for tomorrow morning with the rest of the group, Rob Worsley began to wonder whether he would see his beautiful scheme come to fruition after all. McAlpin was a liability at the best of times. And now, with the evidence of blood on his hands, the ex-weightlifter could easily ruin everything they had planned.
‘Sleepy?’
Maggie shook her head. Lorimer looked much better after a decent night’s sleep, and although he had agreed to work from home, whatever had taken place here during the day had not sapped his strength.
‘The bugs have all gone,’ he told her with a grin. ‘And that’s all I’m saying for now, okay?’
She responded with a half-smile. There was still a feeling that her home had been violated just as effectively as if a burglar had come in and trashed the place. Maggie had an urge to spring-clean the whole house, to rid it of whatever presence had tainted it. She’d given a good description of Mr Black to the police officers and could only hope that he would be apprehended. But to what end? There had been no explanation given for their home being bugged and her husband remained as tight-lipped as ever.
Sitting back in the armchair, she picked up an unread newspaper and flicked through it, only stopping when she came to the page that included theatre reviews.
‘Here, look at this,’ she exclaimed, opening the paper wide and turning it so that Lorimer could see. ‘It’s that play we went to see, remember? The one in the West End that Charles Gilmartin was involved with.’
‘Yes?’ Lorimer was frowning. ‘That was years ago, love. Can’t even remember what it was about.’
Maggie took back the newspaper and sat for a few minutes scanning the column.
‘“Crime drama revamped”,’ she read aloud. ‘“New look for old plot…”’
She bent closer to the page, her mouth opening in a moment of astonishment, then looked up at her husband.
‘What?’
‘The play.’ Maggie had put the paper down on her lap, and Lorimer saw the colour drain from her face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s what they said about the plot…’ Maggie whispered. ‘It’s… oh God, she could have done it…’
She handed over the paper wordlessly.
Lorimer looked at a black-and-white photograph of two well-known actors, and then at the critical review of the play. There was nothing there to produce the sort of shock his wife seemed to be experiencing. That was, until he reached a description of the crime and its risible plot.
The hackneyed plot device was only redeemed by the excellent acting from one of our best young actors… he read. Then, as the article continued, he suddenly remembered the play from all those years before, and how he had scoffed at its weaknesses.
‘“The hackneyed plot device”! Don’t you remember?’ urged Maggie. ‘The murderer turned up the heating to change the supposed time of death!’
Lorimer swallowed hard, her words drilling into his brain.
‘She could have done it,’ Maggie repeated, looking straight into her husband’s blue eyes. ‘Ask Rosie.’
&nbs
p; Lorimer sat stunned by the simplicity of the idea. Had Vivien Gilmartin really poisoned her own husband? Could she have committed the deed then turned up the heating in the flat so high that it obscured the time of death the doctor had given hours later?
Worst of all, had they been harbouring a murderer in their home?
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Rosie Fergusson stripped off her gloves and threw them into the waste bucket with a sigh. The wounds on the woman’s body were extensive and the report she would now write up would be one that she would certainly keep from her sensitive husband, who was squeamish about that sort of thing. Solly had never been happy to look at a crime scene where brutality was in evidence, and this one would turn his stomach for certain. The taxi driver had been luckier in one respect: whoever had slit his throat (and the police seemed to have a good idea of the person they sought) had killed him instantly. Not so with the big Jamaican woman, despite the number of knife wounds to her abdomen and chest, though the one that had cut through the pericardium must have been fatal. She had put up some sort of fight, defence wounds showing on the inside of one of her arms. The other still bore the imprint of her attacker’s boot.
Lorimer had called her last night, asking about the flat where the impresario’s body had been found back in April. Yes, she had told him. It was possible. Why? Had they new evidence to show that someone had tampered with the heating? But the detective superintendent had been non-committal, changing the subject to Abby and asking how Solly’s latest book was progressing. It was odd, Rosie thought. But then she was not always conversant with the details of every case they worked on together. She shrugged as she untied her apron. He would tell her in due course, she thought. Meantime, there was that report to write up and a husband and daughter waiting at home.
