by Alex Gray
Maybe Catherine would know more, he thought suddenly. After all, she was his godmother. Cheered by the prospect of talking to his father’s business partner, Philip Forbes sat up straighter and walked back to the telephone kiosk. He glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time before his flight and Catherine Devoy was likely to be in the office just now.
*
Ten minutes later the young man slumped back into the line of bench seats, his backpack by his side. She’d been there, all right. But what little his godmother had told him made Philip Forbes feel even more helpless and remote. Catherine had spoken gently to him, but that had only made it worse. As far as they could tell, the signs all pointed to Dad having gone on a bender and falling into the river after a late-night party. The boy’s fists clenched. How could he? After all his promises and years of abstinence; how could his father have thrown it all away? Tears pricked the back of his eyes and he had to swallow hard. It wouldn’t do to come over all emotional in a public place. He should be furious with his father: spoiling life for them all, making his mum a quivering wreck, cutting short his own time in Africa. He should feel angry, he should be picturing the final staggerings of a drunk man tipping himself over into a dark and sinister river.
Yet, try as he might, all Philip could see in his mind’s eye was a man laughing as he ran up a grassy hill hand-in-hand with his little boy, pulling a home-made kite behind them.
CHAPTER 19
The background report on the late Duncan Forbes, CA, made interesting reading for DCI Lorimer. It was now a full week since that early morning by the riverside and the man’s body was quietly stored away in the mortuary, awaiting a decision from the Crown Office. They were at that in-between stage trying to correlate the post-mortem and toxicology results with what else they knew.
Duncan Forbes had been fifty-seven years old when his life was cut short. A large, fit man, he’d had no real health problems unless you could count the difficulties of alcoholism that had dogged him twenty years before. A recovered alcoholic was how his GP had described Forbes, emphasizing that the man’s adherence to the straight and narrow had been absolute. His AA meetings had continued right up to the week of his death and he was a model for others to follow. Lorimer chewed the end of a pencil. So Forbes had shown strength of character, after what had been a lapse in his thirties. What had caused his alcoholism in the first place?
Lorimer considered the papers in his hand. The Forbes family business had been merged with a bigger accountancy firm in the eighties when Forbes senior had still been at the helm. Following the new partnership, the old man had retired and left his son to shape the firm that would one day become one of the Big Six, as these world-renowned companies were known. That was the time when Duncan Forbes had gone on those drinking binges that were to mark him for the rest of his life. Lorimer made some calculations. Forbes’ kids would have been very young, the boy a mere toddler. What kind of trial had it been for Elizabeth Forbes coping with an alcoholic husband? Yet she’d stood by him then and, if he’d read the woman correctly, she’d genuinely loved her husband.
There was more in the report that Lorimer skimmed over: Duncan Forbes’ membership of the local golf club, his involvement in Rotary International and some dealings with charities. He had been a good solid citizen, the report was telling him, a man who had overcome his weakness and gone on to make something worthwhile of his life. Who would want to kill a man like that? The thought came unbidden into Lorimer’s head. There was no evidence of murder yet, although the GHB in his bloodstream suggested something sinister had happened that night at the Crowne Plaza. And that weird phone call? Someone had seen the man fall into the river, someone who knew it was Duncan Forbes.
Lorimer tried to imagine the dark night, the lights from the conference rooms shining across the river, the trees mere shadows at the water’s edge. Forbes had staggered out of the side door and across to the railings and then disappeared, hidden by the evergreen shrubbery. Whoever had seen this must have been close enough to the man to know his identity. So why had they not alerted the security staff at the hotel? Why wait until the early hours of the next day to make that hysterical call? It didn’t make sense. Unless the mystery caller had not wanted the man to be found until it was too late to save him. And the abrupt ending of that call? Another hand had been at work there, Lorimer believed. Someone had cut off the woman’s emotional outburst just as she had been on the point of telling the police something significant. Lorimer shuddered suddenly, despite the warmth of his room. It was all in his imagination, wasn’t it? Yet an image persisted of a man’s hand closing on the woman’s wrist, forcing it away from the telephone, pressing the button that would cut her off from the police.
No. What he should be looking at were the reasons for the man to have taken his own life. Something had been on his mind, his wife knew. Something to do with the firm? Yet, as far as he could tell from the papers before him, Forbes Macgregor was not only a highly successful firm but one that attracted all the right sorts of clientele. In short, it was a respectable firm of accountants. Lorimer’s eyes ran down a list of major companies that were audited by Forbes Macgregor’s Glasgow office. An oil company and all its subsidiaries, a major supermarket and a well-known publishing company were among the household names. It looked safe and sound, but perhaps the facts and figures required a more expert analysis.
Turning a page, Lorimer recognized a familiar name. So Forbes Macgregor handled the accounts of Jacobs Betting Shops, did they? That was interesting. He shrugged. Someone had to do it and one of the bigger accountancy firms was bound to have landed an important client like that. And it wasn’t the only bookmaker’s business they handled; The Pony Express, a chain of newer, flashier betting shops, was also a client. It was probably one of those bizarre coincidences he came across every week of his working life, and most DCI’s would dismiss it as such, but the more Lorimer stared at the lines of figures, the more uneasy he felt. He’d been looking for a clue to the death of Duncan Forbes. Could this be it? The murder of the bookmaker had caused shockwaves across the city and there was still an ongoing investigation into the case. They had a good idea who might be behind the contract killing but with Shug McAlister still refusing to give them names, there wasn’t much that could be done. He’d pass this onto Forensic Accounting if the Crown Office deemed it necessary. And maybe the Fraud Squad would have something to offer. It was always a good idea to put feelers out with cases like this. It would only take one more shadow of doubt over Forbes Macgregor for Lorimer to recommend to the Procurator Fiscal that this suspicious death should be treated as a murder inquiry.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Alec Barr stood up and offered Lorimer his hand. ‘Please take a seat.’ Barr came round his desk and waved a hand at two blue armchairs that were placed strategically, angled towards one another. These were for intimate chats, Lorimer guessed. The more functional seating opposite the senior partner’s desk was strictly for business.
‘We’re investigating the circumstances surrounding your former partner’s death, Mr Barr,’ Lorimer began, swinging one leg easily over the other.
Alec Barr did not reply, but merely stared at Lorimer as if willing him to continue. The man’s bushy eyebrows were drawn down in a frown but beneath them the DCI could see a pair of keen eyes regarding him with interest.
‘We received an anonymous telephone call early on the morning following Duncan Forbes’ death. Checks on the call have shown that the person’s accent is local. I wondered if I could speak to your human resources people, sir. Ask them to listen to the tape of this call to see if anyone recognizes the voice.’
‘Why our people?’ Barr blustered. ‘If the call was made the morning after Duncan …?’
‘It was also the morning after a Forbes Macgregor function, sir. The last people to see Duncan Forbes were probably your own colleagues.’
Barr considered this for a moment and Lorimer could see he was thinking hard.
‘The senior
human resources manager is Jennifer Hammond,’ Barr said suddenly. ‘She’s been with the firm for longer than anyone else in that department. Would you like me to call her in?’
‘Please,’ Lorimer replied, clasping his hands over his bent knee and leaning back into the folds of the armchair. The more relaxed he appeared, the less he would give away to the senior partner whose own body language was displaying high levels of stress. He watched Alec Barr as the man dialled the extension and asked for Jennifer. Barr had turned his back on his visitor and Lorimer could not see the man’s expression, but beneath the snow-white shirt the DCI could have sworn those shoulder muscles strained with tension.
Jennifer Hammond was a tall, leggy redhead whose smile immediately made Lorimer uncross his legs and stand up to greet her. She smoothed back her long russet hair as she took the seat beside him. Her dark brown suit was immaculately cut, the skirt just above the knee, showing a pair of slender legs. The severity of her clothes simply drew attention to her face, however, and to a pair of green eyes that were looking at Lorimer with something like amusement. It took him only a heartbeat to realize that this young woman was appraising him not as a visiting policeman but as a possible conquest. Was this a device she used with all her colleagues and clients? he wondered, as Alec Barr made the introductions. Or was it designed to disarm him? If so, it was certainly working as Lorimer realized that he was holding her outstretched hand for just a fraction too long.
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Hammond,’ he began.
‘Jennifer, please.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone calls me by my first name. It’s much friendlier, don’t you think?’
Lorimer suddenly found himself wondering how a judge might respond to such a request in court. ‘Just call me Jennifer, my lord. It’s much friendlier.’
‘Jennifer,’ he began again, ‘I would like you to listen to a tape recording of a call that was made to Strathclyde Police. It was the call that alerted us to Duncan Forbes’ whereabouts following his death.’
‘Really?’ The carefully plucked eyebrows were drawn up in twin arches of surprise. She glanced briefly towards Alec Barr who had perched on the edge of his desk, then looked back at Lorimer. ‘Why do you want me to listen to this, Chief Inspector?’
‘To see if you might be able to identify the caller,’ he told her. ‘Just on the off-chance that it was made by one of Mr Forbes’ colleagues.’
‘Well, of course. How odd. Why would someone telephone the police and not leave their name?’ she asked, the smile dropping from her face as she gave the matter some thought. ‘Do you have the tape here, Chief Inspector, or would you like me to listen to it at a police station?’
‘It’s at Pitt Street,’ Lorimer answered, not revealing that a voice analyst had been working on the tape at police headquarters.
‘Now?’
‘If it’s convenient,’ he replied. The sooner this was over the better. And if Miss Jennifer Hammond could identify their mystery caller, they would be some way down the line in discovering what had really happened to Duncan Forbes.
Lorimer felt a slight awkwardness as he walked along Carlton Place. Jennifer Hammond had donned a loose raincoat but it swung open as she walked beside him, her long legs matching his own stride. She gave him a little smile as they set off, a smile that made him feel distinctly hot under the collar. It was as if he’d asked her out for a date, not for assistance into a police investigation. He tried to concentrate on the traffic coming off the George V Bridge, looking for a likely place to cross the street. Instinctively he took Jennifer Hammond’s arm as a gap appeared in the line of cars, hurrying them over towards the Lexus parked on the other side. Once across the road he let go of her, that small courtesy satisfied as far as he was concerned. She waited until Lorimer had opened the passenger door then slipped inside in one easy movement.
‘Were you at the function at the Crowne Plaza the night of Duncan Forbes’ death, Miss Hammond?’ Lorimer began, as they rounded the corner and began the short journey across town.
‘Jennifer,’ she reminded him. But when he ignored her, she continued, ‘Yes, of course I was. It was Michael’s last night before he set off for New York. We were very good friends. There was no way I’d have missed that party.’ She laughed.
‘A good night, was it?’
‘Yes, great …’ she paused, suddenly aware of what she had said. ‘Oh, God, of course it wasn’t. Poor Duncan. What a thing to say!’ Jennifer Hammond looked at Lorimer, a question in her green eyes. ‘You wanted me to say that, didn’t you?’
‘Perhaps I wanted to find out what sort of evening you all had before it became a tragedy,’ Lorimer replied quietly.
Jennifer Hammond nodded. The flirtatiousness had suddenly disappeared from her face. It was as if she had only just begun to realize that the policeman by her side was a senior officer who was conducting an investigation into something altogether more serious than an accidental death.
‘It was a good party,’ she began. ‘There were about thirty of us: all the partners and Michael’s friends, mostly managers from tax and audit. We had the usual drinks and nibbles, some folk drifted off in the middle of the evening but most of us stayed till the bitter end.’
‘And Duncan Forbes?’
‘Can’t remember what time he left. It was late-ish, certainly. I think most of the partners left around the same time. Sorry. We had a fair bit to drink that night. With taxis laid on to take us all home, I might add,’ she said, a twinkle appearing back in her eyes.
Lorimer tilted his head. ‘What happened to the one that was supposed to be taking Duncan Forbes home to Bearsden?’
Jennifer Hammond shrugged. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t tell you. But if you check with our office manager, he’ll be able to give you the name of the taxi company we always use.’
Lorimer listened to the musical quality in the woman’s voice. There was no tremor to show grief for a colleague’s sudden death or any expression of how awful it really was.
Most women, in Lorimer’s experience, would have made some remark like, ‘Isn’t it terrible?’ or ‘Who would have believed it?’, trite clichés that were still an expression of their genuine feelings of sorrow. But not this lady, he thought. Why? Well, there was one way to find out.
‘How did you get on with Duncan Forbes?’
‘What a strange question to ask!’ Jennifer Hammond answered sharply, a look of annoyance on her face as if Lorimer had actually insulted her.
‘Maybe, but I’d like to know just the same,’ was his mild reply.
‘Fine. He was a good partner to work for. Everyone liked him. He’ll be a great loss to the firm, I assure you.’
Listening to her, Lorimer could hear not Jennifer Hammond, but the voice of a human resources manager. It was as if she were rehearsing a press release on behalf of the firm. The insincerity might be lost on anyone else, but DCI Lorimer’s ear was more finely tuned than most to take in all kinds of emotional nuances. She didn’t like him, he told himself. Then, I wonder why?
Perhaps that was something he might have to find out before much longer.
Inside the red-brick building of Strathclyde Police HQ, Lorimer left Jennifer Hammond to the attentions of the desk sergeant. Once her security badge was fixed on, he led her to an upstairs office where the tape recorder had been set up. It was a soundproof room with no windows. At once Lorimer felt his scalp prickle with unease, the old feeling of claustrophobia making itself manifest. He took a deep breath as if he were about to plunge underwater then exhaled slowly. Sitting just to one side so he could see her face, Lorimer waited while the sound engineer explained to Jennifer Hammond what was required and then fitted on their earphones.
As the caller’s voice began speaking, Lorimer could see the woman’s pupils dilate, then she swallowed hard. She blinked quickly a couple of times, almost as if she were trying to clear her vision.
She knows, Lorimer told himself, experiencing a sudden moment of triumph. He continued to study her as she sat,
immobile, while the message continued.
‘… but I didn’t mean it to happen. Truly I didn’t.’ The pause allowed Jennifer Hammond a moment to respond but, apart from a sniff then a pursing of the lips, she remained silent.
‘He’s over by the Finnieston crane. Near the Crowne Plaza. Oh God … There’s something you should know about—’
Jennifer Hammond remained sitting still, as if expecting something more, then, hearing the click, she removed the headphones and looked questioningly up at Lorimer.
‘That’s it?’
‘Want to hear it again?’
The woman shrugged. ‘If you think it’s necessary.’
‘You recognize the voice?’
She shook her head, putting on the headphones again and deliberately avoiding his enquiring gaze. They listened together twice more, Jennifer Hammond not reacting in any way but simply concentrating hard as if just to fulfil her part of the bargain. She sat staring at the whirring machine as it rewound the tape then spoke without turning her head in Lorimer’s direction.
‘Sorry. No idea who that is. Certainly nobody at Forbes Macgregor. And I should know.’ She smiled and looked at the DCI at last, adding, ‘I know everybody.’ Then, tilting her head, she added, ‘Pity the phone line went dead. It sounded as if she was about to tell you exactly where to find him. Doesn’t it?’
Funny, thought Lorimer, she’s deliberately misinterpreting the final words of the message to make it seem as if they were totally innocuous. Whereas the reality was that the anonymous voice on the other end of that line sounded hysterical.
