The Riverman

by Alex Gray

  ‘Same time next week, Mr Adams?’ The woman behind the raised desk smiled at Malcolm and held his gaze. She knew, he thought suddenly. Maybe they all knew. Did the consultant gather them together to brief them on how to treat their terminally ill patients? Possibly. Malcolm had never come into contact with any of those softly-softly people: therapists, counsellors, whatever. Up until now he’d had no need for them and no patience for those who chose that sort of path. But now, as the woman’s eyes gleamed with genuine sympathy and unspoken words, and he nodded his agreement for the next appointment, Malcolm wondered if he’d simply shut himself off from other possibilities.

  His life consisted of compartments, boxes into which he’d file troublesome things as ‘pending’; but to be truthful they should be marked ‘no intention of going there’. Malcolm bit his lip, uncomfortable with this self-revelation, but the idea had caught hold of him and would not let go. It was the same whenever he read the papers. A trite remark about the latest wave of terrorism sufficed then he could turn to what really mattered: the business section of the morning papers. It was all a matter of perspective, wasn’t it? If you had a relative involved in the armed forces then each and every inch of news about the conflict in the Middle East would be scanned with a growing eagerness to know what was happening and if any danger could touch the person involved. He’d learned to shut off any possibility of acrimonious discussion during his university years. The debating-society types were anathema to Malcolm, his preference had been for the film theatre whenever accounting lectures allowed. There he could indulge the perspective of others for a quiet hour or two before returning to his own much more satisfying existence.

  Malcolm Adams found he had walked all the way past Charing Cross and up Sauchiehall Street before he realized. He’d meant to call a passing taxi to take him downtown and across the river but now he stopped, considering whether he could manage to walk the rest of the way. The very act of thinking about his strength seemed to make it ebb away and Malcolm felt the pain in his head pounding as if there were something actually inside striking against his skull. He swayed slightly then took a deep breath. It would never do to collapse in the middle of the street. Just then a black cab appeared round the corner of Elmbank Street and he raised his hand as the ‘for hire’ light shone out like a beacon.

  ‘Carlton Place, please,’ he told the cabbie, sinking back against the leather seats. None of the staff knew that Mr Adams was attending a consultant on a week-to-week basis. When the echelons of partnership were finally reached, such things could be concealed from even the most eagle-eyed secretary. Random or even regular meetings were up to each individual and breakfast meetings were now a popular norm in the city’s business life. If Shirley thought Malcolm had such calls on his time, then that was up to her and he did not see any need to enlighten his secretary further. His diary simply noted that Mr Adams was not available at certain hours. Some of the others abused this privilege, he knew; Graham West being one of them. How that fellow got away with his trips to the gym and long weekends sailing he never knew.

  The taxi rounded the corner of Blythswood Street, past the bijou galleries and then over the hill towards the river. Malcolm watched, detached, as the people streamed across the street in obedience to the traffic lights. They were all going somewhere on their own personal journeys, no doubt, but just now they seemed like ants scurrying at the prompting of some collective inner will. The feeling of being small and unimportant made him shrink further into the corner of the cab. He would pass out of this vehicle, just another fare, and then be immediately forgotten as the driver scanned the streets for custom. Would it be like that a year from now when he was dead and buried? Some other audit partner would be sitting in his place at Forbes Macgregor, well-meaning friends of Lesley might even be thinking to encourage her out of widowhood and back into the marriage market. The thoughts passed Malcolm by as if he were considering the fate of one of his clients, not his own place in the scheme of things. The sudden realization of his own unimportance had been revealed the first time he had seen the X-rays. Now his days were spent planning for Lesley and the kids, his best achievement and the only part of his life that deserved a good inheritance.

  ‘Just here,’ Malcolm leaned forward as the taxi slowed down outside the elegant Georgian building. ‘Thanks. How much?’

  Standing on the kerb, Malcolm breathed in the cool air with its faint smell of the river and was suddenly and unreasonably grateful for the work that awaited him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Elizabeth Forbes put down the telephone, her hand cold and trembling. She couldn’t even trust her own voice, she realized, as the conversation played over in her head. Jennifer Hammond had been chatty, groaning about Monday mornings and wasn’t Mrs Forbes lucky to be out of the rat race. Pleasant, inane phrases that meant nothing, not even a barb of resentment that Liz had such freedom to live her life as she pleased, something that she had sensed from a few of the younger women in the firm. But of course Jennifer revelled in her career, everyone knew that. She sighed for a moment, thinking about the vibrant redhead who was always so full of energy. And mischief, a little voice reminded her. Ah, but harmless mischief, Liz countered. Jennifer was fun. Surely she would never send such a horrible letter to Duncan’s wife? Everyone respected her husband, she believed, and she had always thought that respect extended to herself. But somebody had sent it.

  Liz’s eyes were drawn towards the hall bureau with those contents now hidden from view. She’d placed the letter in the tiny compartment of a musical box and shoved it behind the lowest drawer: the box had tinkled half a bar of Mozart as she’d pushed it away, reminding her of the birthday when Duncan had given her the gift. It had taken extra resolve to jam it under an old sheaf of papers and Liz had heard the sob catch in her throat.

  What to do now? Her earlier intention to speak to some of the women in Duncan’s office had shrivelled with that meaningless conversation she’d had with the human resources manager. Just get on with your day’s work, she told herself briskly, her usual common sense pushing down the rising panic she’d felt all morning. That was a good thought. There was plenty to be done. The Scouts were coming at the weekend to collect jumble for their annual sale. That would keep her going, sorting through stuff and taking cartons from the attic out to the double garage. The sound of a blackbird scolding out on the lawn reminded her that she still had to refill all the bird feeders.

  Liz straightened up, pulling in her stomach muscles and letting her shoulders slide down her back as she did at Pilates every week. Taking a deep breath, she resolved to forget the contents of the bureau and to think about other, more pleasant things. But, despite her best intentions, her hands slid across the polished surface of the bureau. For an instant she fancied the shelves and drawers were made of glass that she could look through right to the bottom where that envelope lay, its contents visible for all to see.

  CHAPTER 7

  The heads of the mourners were bowed towards the grave, obscuring his view, but DCI Lorimer knew from the priest’s clear voice that the coffin was slowly being lowered into the ground. He had chosen a place by the path, far enough back not to intrude into the crowds that circled round the family but reasonably near so that he looked like a genuine mourner. Today Lorimer was wearing his new winter coat, its thick black softness surprisingly light over his suit. Cashmere, Maggie had told him smugly, proud of her Christmas gift to her husband. He’d never possessed such a fine garment before and had almost protested at the price she must have paid for it, but one look at the glow in her eyes had stopped him and he’d kissed her instead. Now he wished he could tell her how it felt as he stood there sheltered from the blast of icy wind that swept across the cemetery, snug within its folds.

  Anyone glancing his way would never have taken him for a policeman. His early studies in history of art had been an unusual beginning for the man who was now a familiar figure in Strathclyde CID. Yet those who knew him remarked on that still, stea
dy gaze. It was the gaze of one who could see hidden depths whether within a work of art or into the very heart of a man. Detective Chief Inspector William Lorimer made most people look twice, thinking perhaps they had seen him somewhere before. His height alone marked him out and he had an air of authority that was shared by those accustomed to contact with television cameras: an actor perhaps? Or was he a sportsman? He stood with feet apart, hands held behind his back in an almost military stance, but his was the sort of face that looked used to issuing commands, his piercing blue eyes alert to what was going on around him.

  The man’s death had made front-page news, given his status in the city as well as the bloody nature of his killing. Tony Jacobs had been in the Sunday supplements just weeks before, his lucrative chain of bookmakers catapulting him into the ranks of Scotland’s Rich List, his distinctive thatch of grey hair above a still-youthful face a trademark in the glamorous circles he’d frequented. Sadly for him, it had also been an easy mark for the guy with the shotgun. They had hauled in a variety of known thugs, some of them Jacobs’ own hard men, until the identity of the man’s killer had finally been established. A contract killing with a confession; Lorimer should have felt some satisfaction that the case was done and dusted, but he knew that the ripple effect in Glasgow’s underworld could still prove troublesome. Shug McAlister might be safely locked up in Barlinnie for now, yet his paymasters were still out there and the man wasn’t talking. At least Tony Jacobs’ family had some sense of relief now that the Procurator Fiscal had finally released the body for burial.

  A sudden flash made Lorimer turn and he saw, to his irritation, that the press had arrived at the cemetery gates. In swift response, a couple of burly men peeled themselves away from the group around the grave and headed towards the cameramen. They had no sooner moved than the journalists hastily shouldered their gear and legged it. Shelley Jacobs had insisted on privacy when Lorimer had offered a police escort for the family and so he had come alone. It had been too much to expect that the media would have respected the wishes of a young widow.

  Tony Jacobs had managed to avoid any brushes with the law but there had always been a suspicious whiff of something unsavoury about the man. Digging deeper into the case, Lorimer had found himself curious about Jacobs as more and more faces of the bookie’s colleagues expressed a sympathy that was obviously feigned. The man who’d owned Jacobs Betting Shops had been universally fêted and just as universally disliked. Only Shelley had seemed genuinely distressed when Lorimer had spoken to her following the shooting at Jacobs’ Clyde Street office. My Tony, she’d kept saying over and over, my Tony …

  Lorimer saw the movement of the crowd and made to leave the cemetery before any of the mourners realized who had been standing in their midst. He would observe them from the sanctuary of his car as they filed out, noting who had come to pay their last respects and storing away the thoughts of those who had, for reasons of their own, failed to attend. As he turned from the graveyard, Lorimer saw a flock of crows wheel over the fields and he heard the rumble of a tractor beyond the hedge of yew trees. He stopped for a moment, watching as the birds dipped in a sweeping motion towards the sound, their black shapes vivid against the grey February skies.

  Ploughing, seedtime and harvest, he thought. Life goes on.

  Life was certainly going on in the division as he returned to the city. The station car park was busier than usual and Lorimer had to reverse the Lexus into a corner space next to a wall, causing him to squeeze his way out to avoid scraping the door. Not that a few more scratches would have mattered; the old car had seen better days. For an unsentimental man he was still inordinately attached to his ancient Lexus. Mitchison had dropped hints to him on several occasions about replacing it with something more suitable but this had simply served to strengthen Lorimer’s resolve to hang on to the car until it was ready for the great scrapyard in the sky. His superintendent might look on its faded glamour with disdain but Lorimer had no intention of trading in the old girl. Given its age and mileage it was practically worthless anyway.

  Lorimer hung the cashmere coat carefully on the stand by his office door. He’d meant to bring in a coat hanger but had forgotten again in the rush to leave the house. His mouth creased in a smile as he remembered why he and Maggie had had to skip breakfast and hurry towards their cars. A sigh of contentment escaped him. God, but it was good to have her back!

  His reverie was interrupted by the telephone ringing and soon the DCI was immersed in conversations that would keep him occupied for the rest of the morning.

  ‘That’s it! Well done, Robbie. Empathize. Like sympathize, only the poet puts himself into the place of the bird …’ A strident bell signalled the end of the period and Maggie Lorimer stood back as desks banged and feet shuffled towards the door. Robbie Ross caught her eye and grinned at her, still pleased to have cracked the idea behind Keats’ poem. Pleased, too, to have gained her enthusiastic praise.

  Once the classroom was clear and the last sounds of laughter had disappeared down the corridor, Maggie tidied the papers on her desk and filed them carefully into her bulging briefcase. It had gone so well, that lesson on ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. Her sixth years were the icing on the cake in a timetable that was really pretty decent, given that she had been away in the States for half a year. Another head of English might simply have given her the dregs as a way of reminding her that others had worked hard while she’d been swanning it in Florida but Kara Steele wasn’t like that, thank God. The woman had made a real impact on the English department in the short time she had been there. And she had no problem communicating with her staff. They pulled along really well as a team and as a result their classes responded by giving of their best. It was not something that could be said of other subjects in the school and Maggie knew she had a lot to be grateful for. Kara had missed her, she’d said. Nice to have a different perspective on things while the American exchange teacher had been there, but not the same as having Maggie Lorimer around. Not too sorry her replacement had been forced by family circumstances to finish earlier than intended, either, Kara had added.

  Maggie smiled as she locked her cupboard door. It had not been an easy decision to up sticks and leave Scotland for all those months but the break seemed to have done her career no harm. In fact she knew the job was more enjoyable than ever, even if she still groaned at the weight of marking that had to be done. She sat down for a moment, savouring the peace and quiet of the lunchbreak, then switched on her mobile and saw that she had three messages. Her smile at the recipient faded as she read what he had to say: Late tonight. Don’t wait dinner. Love you X

  Maggie sighed, remembering the days when such messages would have built up in a mountain of discontent. Never again, she had resolved. Never again would she let her feelings spiral out of control. She had her job to do and he had his. Both mattered and both should be respected; still, there were times when her resolve might falter and Maggie knew better than to let any resentment simmer. She didn’t have such a huge marking load that a wee drive over to see Mum for an hour or two was out of the question. Anyway, there was always tomorrow morning, she told herself with a wicked grin, as her stomach rumbled reminding her of what she’d preferred to breakfast.

  The glass tipped over almost with a will of its own, the red wine pooling on the white linen in a sudden stain.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ a voice at Shelley’s elbow told her, and before she could reply another glass of wine was in her shaking fingers and Craig’s hand was under her elbow, steering her towards a vacant chair by the hotel window.

  ‘Here. Drink it. You look like you need it,’ Craig’s voice was stern but his usually hard eyes contained a glimmer of sympathy for the boss’s wife. Shelley Jacobs nodded her thanks and sipped the wine. It was good stuff, not the gut rot in boxes that she’d tasted at her father’s funeral. God! That had been a trial. Joseph had insisted on footing the bill: insisted that this was a Reilly funeral.

  Shelley glanced up, tr
ying to see her brother through the crowd of people who had come back to the wake. Had he left already? Surely even Joseph would have sought her out before he’d gone home? His bitter dislike of Tony should be kept hidden today of all days. Shelley thought with a sudden sadness that the two men she’d loved best in all the world had never tried to resolve their antipathies. Now they never would.

  ‘Hi.’

  Shelley looked up and there he was, pint in hand, his tie already loosened from its restrictive knot. Part of her wanted to rage at him for his slovenly appearance. Could you not have made an effort just this once? It’s my husband’s funeral, for God’s sake! But something in his expression stopped her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joseph said and suddenly all her pent-up emotion gave way and Shelley found herself sobbing into her brother’s shoulder, hearing his soothing words whispering in her ear. He’d look after her. She’d be okay. He’d not let anything happen to her.

  Shelley drew back, fumbling in her handbag for yet another tissue. Joseph had said sorry, that was all that mattered. The other things were platitudes, stuff she’d heard for weeks from the lawyers. But his final words didn’t make sense. Nothing was going to happen to her. Was it?

  CHAPTER 8

  The man turned his collar against the sudden wind that knifed his face as the ferry sailed across the Clyde’s choppy waters. It was a perfect morning, the air crisp after an early frost, the sky above the Cowal Hills icy blue. He breathed in the familiar smells of diesel and sea tang, feeling the throb of the small engines under his feet. It was a short crossing over to MacInroy’s Point and he could easily have stayed in the warmth of the car but he preferred to stand outside for those few minutes, like an intermission in his day. Eddie let his mind loiter as the waves splashed against the sides of the boat, mesmerized by the curving patterns of water repeating their shapes over and over. It was with a sense of reluctance that he came to, as the voice on the tannoy requested drivers to return to their vehicles.