The Riverman

by Alex Gray

  ‘Yeah, read all about it. Poor bloke. Drunk, wasn’t he?’ The barman shook his head as Solly gave a non-committal shrug. ‘We had some people staying here. There are always the stragglers who check in for the night. Been to the Armadillo and it’s too far to go home. Can’t afford the Crowne Plaza prices so they come here.’ The man polished a row of wine glasses absently as he spoke.

  ‘Did Strathclyde Police ask you anything about the incident?’ Solly enquired politely.

  ‘Me?’ The Australian looked surprised. ‘Why’d they ask me anything?’

  Solly smiled benignly. ‘Perhaps to confirm if any of the residents had been at the Crowne Plaza earlier? Maybe some of your guests had been there earlier in the evening? Checking out accommodation?’ Solly replied, following up the barman’s own line of thought.

  ‘Oh, you’d need to ask at reception. That’s not my bag. What’s your interest in this anyway, mate?’ A frown appeared between the man’s dark eyes and Solly detected a hardening in his expression. With a small sigh of resignation he drew a business card out of his coat pocket and handed it across the counter.

  The Australian’s lips moved imperceptibly as he read the card.

  ‘I help the police with their investigations from time to time,’ Solly explained, shrugging again as if to say it was no big deal.

  ‘Doctor Brightman, eh? Psychologist.’ The man nodded then pursed his lips.

  Solly smiled. The card could be useful. It allayed any suspicions and gave him a little bit of authority to ask questions. And he could see that this man was suddenly impressed by the letters after his name. Still, he would have to return with one of Strathclyde’s officers in tow if he wanted to find out about the hotel’s guest list and whether it included anyone who had seen Duncan Forbes walking unsteadily along that footpath several nights ago.

  It had been a long day. Solly pulled the cupboard door open and hung his coat carefully on its customary hanger. His stomach had been rumbling noticeably for several hours, reminding him of a missed lunch and a belated dinner. He really should make the effort to prepare a meal even if it was only a can of soup and some bread.

  Eventually Solly was wiping the soup mug with the final bit of crust and savouring his last mouthful. With a sigh he put down the mug and cleaned his mouth and beard with a checked napkin. That was better. The intense cold that had penetrated his bones for most of the day was finally loosening its grip. For a while the psychologist simply stared into space. An observer might have thought that he was practically asleep, the long eyelashes half-covering his dark eyes, but Solly was not falling into a dream. He seemed to be staring into the night sky beyond his room but what he was actually trying to see were pathways up and down the river Clyde; pathways that made sense to a killer.

  From Forbes Macgregor’s offices it was a fifteen-minute walk along the river to Jennifer Hammond’s flat and less than that by car (or cab, in Solly’s case) to the Crowne Plaza Hotel. The psychologist had walked the pathway all the way back to the city centre, his eyes absorbing each and every aspect of the riverside. Much of these banks had undergone a regeneration process since Solly had made Glasgow his home and he was intrigued to see so many cyclists and dog walkers in this part of the city. There was something prestigious nowadays about owning a property that had a view over the river and Solly could see the attraction. Foxes had been spotted regularly along the walkways, and cormorants were a familiar sight. Graham West’s own residence was in the penthouse flat of what was known as the Butterfly Building. Its two triangular shapes looked like a butterfly from the air, the riverman had told him. Solly had passed several other modern blocks of apartment buildings before crossing the Squinty Bridge to the river’s south bank to the complex of flats where Jennifer Hammond’s body had been found.

  George Parsonage had told him stories about the bridges and the several attempted suicides that he had saved from drowning. His job was not just about fishing sodden corpses from the depths of the Clyde. An April night might have seen any number of people wandering around the bridges including the usual derelicts who tended to doss down under the Kingston Bridge; Solly had looked upwards at its concrete span as he’d stood by the gateway to Riverside Gardens. Traffic filled the busy link between north and south, a constant dim roar above his head.

  The offices at Carlton Place were secured at night by an elderly janitor, but every member of the senior staff could access the building at any time if they had a security pass. There were at least thirty people who might have been in and out of that office after hours on both the night Duncan Forbes had died and the evening Jennifer Hammond had been murdered, Solly had discovered. All the partners and managers could come and go as they pleased: staying late was a common occurrence and the managers were well paid for overtime. Solly had looked into the taxi fleet that had taken members of Michael Turner’s going-away party to their homes afterwards; its records showed a surprising amount of Forbes Macgregor’s staff had not availed themselves of the taxis’ services. Michael Turner had gone back to his own home by taxi with Jennifer Hammond. But he had noticed that none of the partners had been driven home. Possibly they’d taken their own cars, whether drunk or sober, he thought grimly. Solomon Brightman had never known any desire to drive. The attraction of fast cars was simply beyond his comprehension, but he did understand the prestige many attached to owning and driving a luxury car. Even Lorimer’s old Lexus had some cachet in that department, though its enormous mileage rendered it of little value in monetary terms. Some potential eye witnesses to Duncan Forbes’ death could be ruled out from the staff that had been at Michael Turner’s party then, as they were well on their way home, but not all.

  The last dregs of soup congealed in the mug as Solly’s mind turned round and around, following a shadowy figure along that pathway by the Clyde.

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘That’s all, is it? An officer to accompany you to the City Inn and a search warrant for Forbes Macgregor’s offices? Oh sure.’ Lorimer’s sarcasm came thickly over the line. ‘I don’t think so. Well, not the warrant at any rate. That’s for the Fiscal to provide.’ There was a pause as the two men remained silent, one waiting for a response, the other trying to figure out what he had achieved by asking for more than he actually required. If Lorimer had guessed the psychologist’s simple tactic he was not showing it. Maybe Mitchison was breathing down his neck? Solly grinned. That wouldn’t affect the senior investigating officer’s decision, he told himself.

  ‘So who do you want to ask the questions at the City Inn?’ Lorimer asked shortly.

  Solly’s grin widened. The DCI wasn’t happy that this particular line of inquiry had been overlooked, that was all. ‘Oh, anybody,’ Solly answered airily.

  ‘Tell you what,’ there was a pause as Lorimer considered, ‘why don’t we meet there in, oh, about an hour, say? You don’t have any classes today, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve some stuff to clear up here then I’ll see you.’

  The Australian barman was replacing empty bottles above the optics when Lorimer and Solly strode into the City Inn’s coffee bar.

  ‘Hi.’ The smile appeared instantly on the barman’s face. ‘What can I get you gentlemen to drink?’

  His smile fell a little as Lorimer placed his warrant card on the counter, asking, ‘May we have a quiet word, please?’

  Rick Murray sat between the two men, glancing at each of them in turn. Luckily the coffee bar was empty at this time of day but it wouldn’t be too long before he’d need to set up the tables for lunchtime.

  ‘What’s this all about, guys?’

  Lorimer took out a photograph and placed it on the table. It was a photocopy of a page from Accountants’ Magazine showing various members of Forbes Macgregor’s staff, including all their Glasgow partners.

  ‘I wondered if you had ever seen any of these people before,’ he began. ‘We particularly want to know if any of them checked into the hotel on the night of 7 April thi
s year. Take your time,’ he added as the barman opened his mouth to speak. One look at Lorimer’s steely glare and Rick’s mouth closed again. It would be the easiest thing in the world to deny having ever seen anyone, heard anything, said anything like the wise monkey he should be. But that pair of blue eyes was fastened on him, forcing the barman to look at the paper on the table. Rick scanned the faces smiling up at him. Some of the people in the photos were standing outside a building, others were seated around a large table. He looked intently, wondering which of them had ended up in the Clyde. Finally he met Lorimer’s gaze and shook his head. ‘Not sure about any of the men there, sorry,’ he shrugged, then hesitated. ‘But there’s one face I do recognize,’ he said, pointing to a dark-haired woman in the middle of one photo. ‘Her.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘Don’t usually forget the lookers, do you?’

  ‘A regular, was she?’

  ‘Nope. In fact I only saw her the one time, but I do remember her.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Oh, couple of months back. More towards the beginning of February, I’d say.’ He frowned as if trying to remember. ‘See, she was meeting this younger guy for lunch.’ Rick glanced at Solly to catch his eye. ‘I like to watch the couples, y’know, see how they interact, watch their body language.’ He nodded towards the psychologist. Solly’s impassive expression yielded nothing so he turned back to Lorimer. ‘Gets a bit boring in here otherwise.’

  ‘And did you recognize this younger man?’

  ‘Hey, let me see these pics again.’ The barman picked up the photocopy and turned it to the light. ‘Yeah, that’s him there. The one at the back. Not such a great photo of him, but I’d seen him in here a few times after office hours.’

  Lorimer froze as the barman chattered on. ‘Never came in for a drink with the woman, though. Just lunch that one time. Don’t know who the guy was though and, come to think of it, haven’t seen him in here recently.’

  ‘Did you think he might be her boyfriend?’ Solly asked.

  Rick grinned. ‘No chance. He was way too polite to her. No, I reckoned she was his boss. But I tell you what. He was pretty excited after she’d gone. That’s something I do remember.’

  Lorimer resisted the urge to meet Solly’s eyes. There might be nothing in this, but he would be intrigued to know just why Catherine Devoy had come across the river to lunch with Michael Turner.

  ‘We’d also like a look at your guest register, please.’ Lorimer kept his tone neutral, though he could feel his heart thumping with excitement. There was something worth investigating here after all.

  It was late by the time Lorimer reached home. The hotel’s register had revealed nothing at all. No members of Forbes Macgregor’s staff had elected to stay over on that April night. At least not under their own names, he thought, his naturally suspicious mind ferreting into dark corners.

  ‘Hey, Mags. I’m home,’ he called out, opening the door of the living room to the brightness and warmth within.

  ‘Hey yourself.’ His wife smiled up at him. ‘Had anything to eat?’

  Lorimer ducked his head and offered a sheepish grin. ‘Curry with Solly, actually. Sorry.’

  Maggie rolled her eyes to heaven. ‘Just as well I hadn’t cooked anything special then, isn’t it?’ But her words became lost as Lorimer scooped her into his arms in a hug. Maggie felt the cold of his jacket sleeve as she stroked it in response to his hands circling the small of her back, a ploy guaranteed to weaken her defences.

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ She looked up, the smile dying on her lips. ‘I took your cashmere coat to the cleaners after school. How on earth did it get so mucky?’

  Lorimer opened his eyes wide in feigned innocence and shrugged.

  ‘Och, you! Anyway, I found something in the pocket.’ Maggie leaned over and retrieved the tape from a side table.

  ‘Ah.’ Lorimer took the tape from his wife. ‘That’s a copy of the voice Jennifer Hammond said she didn’t recognize—’

  ‘And you didn’t believe her,’ Maggie finished for him.

  ‘Well, maybe we’ll never know now.’ He paused for a moment, turning the tape over and over in his fingers. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to hear it?’

  ‘Is it scary?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Maggie watched as Lorimer slotted the tape into their machine, and sat back against the warmth of her husband’s shoulder. The machine whirred in silence then suddenly a woman’s voice uttered the panic-stricken words that had led Lorimer to look at Duncan Forbes’ death in a new light.

  ‘Play it again, would you?’ Maggie asked, her eyes fixed on the tape recorder.

  Lorimer rewound the tape then watched his wife’s face as she listened once more. A tiny frown formed on her brow as the voice repeated the unfinished message. ‘She’s scared, isn’t she?’ Maggie remarked at last, moving closer. ‘A well-educated lady, by the sounds of her, not an old person either …’ She shivered suddenly, and laced her fingers through Lorimer’s. ‘What on earth did she really see, I wonder?’

  The tape whirred silently in the machine as Lorimer felt her body rigid with tension; Maggie had a rare gift of empathy with people that could be a blessing or a curse. She could be reliving the unknown woman’s terror he thought, gently caressing her hair as if to erase the images inside her head.

  ‘I wonder where she is now,’ Maggie murmured. ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ Lorimer suggested.

  ‘Sure. A whisky’d be grand,’ she replied, eyeing the decanter on the sideboard.

  He dropped a swift kiss on the top of her head as he rose to fetch them both a glass. ‘What’re you going to do now?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve set up another house-to-house inquiry, this time asking the neighbours if they saw anyone the same night as the Forbes Macgregor party. Don’t know if it’ll do much. People get sniffy when there’s a repeat visit. Think the police don’t believe whatever they told them the first time.’

  ‘What about the neighbour?’

  Lorimer frowned. ‘Aye, we got a lot of grief from that guy downstairs who reported the water coming through his roof. Wee toerag. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the SFA.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Davie McLaren,’ he replied, handing her the glass of whisky. ‘Heard of him?’

  Maggie screwed up her brow. ‘Wasn’t he the boy wonder who was sent off five minutes after the kick-off when Scotland played Norway?’

  Lorimer grinned. ‘Very same. Hasn’t learned anything from that incident either by the looks of it. Full of himself.’ Lorimer sipped his drink thoughtfully. Davie McLaren had appeared to be in shock, babbling on about wanting his agent with him, as if the young footballer needed a grown-up to hold his hand in a crisis. Which he probably did.

  ‘What we want is for someone to positively ID a visitor to Jennifer Hammond’s flat,’ Lorimer said. ‘On either of the nights,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘Don’t the flats have CCTV cameras?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. There’s a security man around during the day but he’s only there to stop non-residents parking within the grounds. He goes off at five o’clock every night.’

  ‘So,’ Maggie began again slowly, ‘unless you have a witness who saw someone go into Jennifer’s flat, you’re not very much further forward, are you?’

  Lorimer shrugged. ‘Solly’s nosing around a bit. And we’re running a check on the accounting firm itself.’

  Lorimer drained his glass and stared into space. Wheels had been put into motion now that this was effectively being treated as a double murder. Someone had wanted Jennifer Hammond out of the way. Was that why she had been preparing to leave for the firm’s holiday villa in Cyprus? Well, he was due to see the Forbes Macgregor partners tomorrow. Maybe one of them would be able to enlighten him. And there was still the matter of an employee missing somewhere in the United States, an employee whose credit cards had been found on a dead
man. Michael Turner’s farewell party had stirred up something murky, Lorimer mused to himself. But like the bottom of the river being scraped by a dredger, silt that had been disturbed was now fogging up the clearer waters.

  CHAPTER 30

  ‘So how do we know that Othello has reason to feel jealousy?’ Maggie looked around the class of sixteen-year-olds. A few tentative hands were up, but still she let her eyes roam over the others, giving them time to think through a response.

  ‘What d’you reckon, James?’ she finally asked a thin teenager slouching at the back of the classroom.

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe he was just like that?’ James shrugged and resumed chewing whatever he had in his mouth. Maggie ignored the exaggerated rhythm of his jaws. She’d had one confrontation too many with this lad and wasn’t about to let him disrupt her Shakespeare lesson.

  ‘What do the rest of you think? Yes, Lewis?’

  ‘He’d been warned by Brabantio though, hadn’t he Miss?’

  ‘Good, Lewis. What was it Desdemona’s father said again?’

  There was a rustle as the students looked up the pages of their textbooks.

  ‘Yes? Kirstine?’

  ‘He says, “Look to her, Moor, have a quick eye to see: She has deceived her father, may do thee.” Is that it, Miss?’

  ‘Does that mean she’ll gie him a doin’, Miss?’ James called out to an undercurrent of sniggering.

  Maggie shook her head, more in despair at the boy’s deliberate misinterpretation of the text than at his cheek.

  ‘Ah’d gie anyone a doin’ if they tried it oan wi’ ma burd. Know whit ah mean?’