by Alex Gray
Maggie sighed. The nature of Othello’s jealousy was rapidly going downhill, but maybe she could salvage something from the boy’s insolence.
‘You’ve got a jealous nature too then, James?’ she asked.
‘Oh, aye, Miss,’ he replied, then looked slyly at his neighbour before asking, ‘D’you not feel a bit thon way yourself?’
Maggie stood motionless. What the hell did he mean? She felt the redness suffuse her cheeks and continued to stare, quite unable to form a coherent reply.
‘Eh, Miss? Did ye no’ kinda’ wonder aboot Mr Lorimer when ye were away?’
There was a sudden collective intake of breath from the rest of the class. James Kerrigan had gone too far this time. Mrs Lorimer would give him a real telling off or even sling him out of the room.
But Maggie did neither of these things. Instead she continued to gaze at the boy. Had other kids in the school been asking the same question? A murmur among the girls made her aware that she had to speak or be condemned by her very silence.
‘Is that what you think the normal reaction is between people, James?’ she said, trying hard to control her voice. Then, turning to look over the whole class, she asked, ‘What do you all think? Is it reasonable to become suspicious of one’s partner?’
The relief within the room was palpable and a few hands shot up.
‘Desdemona’s younger than him, Miss, and she has lots of admirers,’ one of the girls piped up.
‘And Iago makes him think like that, Miss. He’s pure evil, by the way,’ another added.
Just then the bell shrilled out and Maggie watched as each student began to pack up hurriedly and head for the door.
‘Walk!’ she called automatically as the boys began to run along the corridor towards the canteen. Last period in the morning was a good slot for teaching, but Maggie rarely had any pupils hanging back to discuss the finer points of Shakespeare in their rush to find lunch.
‘A’right, Miss?’ James looked back over his shoulder at her as he turned away from the door, an insouciant grin of mischief on his face.
Maggie waved him off. James was a pain and she should have dealt with him more severely. He knew it too, she thought, as she watched him kick an imaginary football into an equally imaginary goal. God! That had been close. She’d nearly made a right fool of herself. Next time he’d be given a reprimand for insolence and made to stay behind. So why hadn’t she done that today? Maggie asked herself, gathering in the textbooks that had been rapidly thrust down to the front row of the class. Was it because she was frightened to hear what he might tell her?
She piled the books into her cupboard shelves and locked the door. Outside, the corridor was silent, the last sound of rushing feet having died away. With a huge sigh, Maggie turned and headed towards the staffroom. A cup of coffee, she thought, then a sit down.
The staffroom was a pleasant cacophony of noise, the hiss from the coffee machine and the sound of voices talking and laughing. A few faces turned her way and smiled as she passed them. Maggie smiled back feeling, as she sometimes did, that this was her real home among these people who shared her way of life, her grouses about certain pupils, her frustrations with aspects of the system that seemed utterly pointless; things that Bill would never really understand. There was that lovely solidarity with folk like Sandie, who was already beckoning her over to sit next to her.
‘Hard morning?’ Sandie asked as Maggie slumped into the chair by her friend.
‘Sort of. That James Kerrigan. He’s a cheeky wee soand-so.’
‘Oh, him! I’ve given up expecting much of James. His computing assignments are way behind. Can’t think what on earth we’ll do without him after the summer,’ she added, her voice laden with sarcasm.
‘Is he leaving, then?’
‘Yep! Doesn’t want to be bothered with school, he tells me. Doesn’t need any grades for what he’s going to do.’
‘And what might that be?’ Maggie asked darkly. ‘Dealing at the school gates with big brother Tam?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Sandie replied, ‘but he said he was starting with his pal’s father in his joinery business.’
‘Ah, well, so long as he keeps his nose clean. Those Kerrigans have been nothing but trouble,’ Maggie grumbled, rising to her feet in search of a cup of coffee.
‘Come and see, come and see!’ Stephanie, the probationer in Maggie’s English department, sat opposite them and placed a pile of wedding magazines on the table with a flourish.
‘Tell me what you think,’ she prattled happily, turning a page and pointing at an advertisement for wedding stationery. Several of the women leaned in towards the girl and examined the magazine. Maggie sat back and sighed to herself. Steph, with her long glossy dark hair and impossibly tiny waist, was just like a wee girl at times. Her voice rose in a squeal of excitement as she showed off her choices of wedding invitations and orders of service. Had she ever been like that before her wedding to Bill? Maggie wondered. Memories came flooding back of standing at the church door, rose petals whirling in the spring air and Bill grinning at her like an idiot. The happiest day of my life, she thought. But there had been other moments too, like being whisked off her feet and carried over the threshold.
Suddenly she was back there again in Glasgow’s West End, seeing herself as she must have been at Stephanie’s age. Their flat had been two flights up a dark staircase that smelled of late-night curries and mouldering vegetables. The front door was a home-made job, flat brown formica nailed across whatever had been there before in a vain attempt to give the place some class. That had been an utter failure, but at least it had served to distinguish their wee place from all the rest. Some time previously the apartment must have been a fine building, since traces of cornicing could still be distinguished on the ceiling of the tiny hallway. Theirs had been one room with a shared communal kitchen and a long cold bathroom with an enormous bath. It had taken hours to fill and far too many of their precious coins in that greedy meter. Maggie smiled to herself remembering the time she and Bill had clambered, giggling, into that huge tub, hoping their collective weight would make the water level rise sufficiently to give them a decent soak. They’d made love then, careless of the presence of other folk just through the thin partition walls, careless of anything other than their own fervent desires. She’d trembled beneath her young husband’s touch as he’d dried her skin, as much from passion as from the cold air that had swirled around that Gothic excuse for a bathroom. The wooden floorboards were worn and shiny from countless pairs of feet, she remembered, and those green tiles with their black trim just had to have been the original decor.
Now it was all gone, felled by the wrecking ball that had cleared that whole section of Gibson Street. She had gone back once, before the heavy plant had moved in, seeing the blank windows with their dingy lace curtains and the rubbish that had piled up inside the closes. How had she felt? Had it been nostalgia for the days they’d spent in that wee nest or gratitude that their home consisted of far more than a single rented room? She couldn’t remember. Stephanie had got onto the subject of her new flat and all the Ikea furniture she wanted to buy but Maggie was barely listening. In her mind’s eye she was seeing Bill loping along Gibson Street, his dark hair shining under that street lamp just below their window and remembering how her heart would lift at the very sight of him.
Had they lost something of that along the way? The lonely nights spent in hospital beds after yet another miscarriage had perhaps served to make her grow up or grow away from the person she’d been. Would a family have made any difference to them? Or was this a condition that came to all married couples in time? Would young Stephanie still have that magical sparkle ten years from now?
‘What’s up with you?’ Sandie asked, making Maggie aware of the huge sigh that had escaped from her chest.
‘Och, nothing. Pity we all have to grow up, isn’t it?’ she whispered, nodding towards Stephanie.
‘Aye, sure is,’ her friend repl
ied dryly, ‘but at least you’ve still got a man to go home to. When he’s there, that is.’ Sandie grinned, digging Maggie in the ribs.
Maggie smiled. This was true. Sandie’s messy divorce had left her a bit jaded about men but she had never sought to be other than supportive whenever Maggie moaned about Bill’s long hours in the force. Or was that what she really meant? Was she maybe trying to tell her something quite different?
For a moment Maggie Lorimer sat and thought about the possibility of her husband being unfaithful to her. It happened to other couples. Look at poor Sandie. But that would never happen to her and Bill, would it? A cold worm of fear wriggled somewhere in the pit of her stomach. And with it came a small voice asking the question; how was she ever to find out if he had cheated on her?
CHAPTER 31
JJ pulled the van door shut and clicked the remote locking device. Giving a sigh, he flexed his shoulder muscles and yawned. On the overhead power lines birds swayed in the late-afternoon heat as the breeze lifted them to and fro. A faint mist of brown dust blew over the scrubland on either side of the road where JJ had left the van. Shading his eyes from the sun he gazed out across the prairie grass that stretched for miles until the heat haze made the red hills seem to rise out of a shimmering sea. It was a long time since he’d been out here shooting rabbits and crows, away from the city that had become his natural habitat and erstwhile hunting ground. He was finished with all that now. One last throw of the dice and he could slip away to retire in comfort: somewhere in Florida, maybe. He’d buy a nice beachside property, do a little fishing, watch the sunsets.
His reverie was broken by a voice behind him.
‘Is this where we’re spending the night?’
JJ turned sharply, frowning. He followed the other man’s gaze towards a single storey house at the end of an overgrown path. It was shaded by several live oaks but even through the shadows the place had a beaten, neglected air.
‘Sure.’
‘Not exactly a home-from-home, is it?’
JJ spat onto the dried ground. ‘What d’ya expect?’ he snarled. ‘Five-star hotels or sump’n?’ Then, picking up the bags that he’d dropped by the van, he motioned for his companion to follow him.
‘Every home comfort, wait till you see.’ He nodded, and headed up towards the house.
Behind him the other man hesitated. They’d travelled a long, long way already and his body was aching. A bath and a meal were what he needed right now. Tonight he’d go along with the older man’s wishes, but tomorrow might be a different matter.
Owls screeched outside as the two men settled down by the empty fireside. JJ had proved as good as his word, cooking a scratch meal from stuff he’d emptied out of a grocery sack and finally producing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from a cupboard in the main living room. He’d not spoken a word about the house, but from his easy familiarity with all the kitchen utensils it was obvious to his companion that he knew the place well. The darkness outside and the light from the tablelamp made the house feel as though its walls were wrapping themselves around the two travellers, protecting them from the world outside.
‘Reckon we should make a start,’ JJ began, pointing at the laptop on the table between them. ‘Boot it up, pal.’ He grinned.
Michael Turner blinked as the screen was illuminated. How many days ago had it been since he had sat in his Glasgow office staring at these images? He tried to calculate but his mind slipped into a grey indifference. Being alive was what really mattered now. He risked a glance at the man sitting opposite him. Staying that way might be another thing altogether.
CHAPTER 32
‘Tony Jacobs,’ Lorimer said. ‘That’s right, the bookie.’ He paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘No, there’s no reason to suspect anything illegal,’ he said. ‘Not at this stage, at any rate.’ Lorimer listened then laughed as the voice protested that he had a dirty mind. ‘That’s what they pay me for,’ he retorted and hung up, grinning. He clasped his hands, index fingers resting on his lips as he thought about the process that was now in motion. Forbes Macgregor’s accounting services might be white as the driven snow as far as the Jacobs’ company was concerned but he wasn’t in the business of making assumptions like that. The client records would be examined in detail to see if there had been anything that might link the murder of the bookmaker to Duncan Forbes and Jennifer Hammond.
Solly hadn’t come up with a preliminary report, but that was okay. His methods were slower than those of the police. Lorimer thought of Rosie and Solly. An unlikely couple in many ways, yet their respective jobs demanded the same quality of patience and perseverance. Where the DCI was more inclined to put things into action, the psychologist had a different perspective, his maps and statistics making pictures he could follow in his mind. The first few days of any murder case were crucial before the trail grew cold and the traces were overlaid by numerous contacts.
Today Lorimer was meeting the partners of Forbes Macgregor. He’d toyed with the idea of asking them all to meet here but had decided on balance that their own territory was better: they’d be more inclined to relax in familiar surroundings, if they could relax at all after the events of the last few days. Lorimer nibbled his fingernail. Should he let them know about Michael Turner? Or would his hunch about the missing man being found dead come to pass sooner than he imagined?
Graham West scrolled down the list of emails and stopped as his eye was caught by a familiar name. It couldn’t be. This was surely someone’s idea of a sick joke. Or a virus, maybe? No, they had all the firewalls IT could provide. Nevertheless, his fingers trembled as they moved the mouse and clicked on the line of text.
He read the message three times before printing it off. Somehow he needed to have the thing in his hand, tangible, before it would seem real. Now should he delete it? West felt sweat begin to dampen his palms. He wasn’t that au fait with computer technology to know if this message could be retrieved once he’d sent it spinning into oblivion. Nor was he certain if he should obliterate it. That would prevent any reply, wouldn’t it? And the message very plainly demanded some response.
As West sat staring at the screen his mind was whirling. Was this a hoax? Should he turn it over to the others? Was his passport up to date? This last thought crept in unbidden and Graham West realized he was shivering badly with shock. Not only was he looking at a demand that could break his career but that demand seemed to be coming from beyond the grave.
At last he took a breath and pressed the reply button. With shaking fingers he tapped out the words: give me time.
‘Got a minute, Graham?’ Alec Barr’s head appeared beside the door so suddenly that West’s hand caught the sheaf of papers that had been balancing on top of his intray, sending them tumbling to the floor. Hiding his confusion, he scrambled below the desk, retrieving the scattered documents then stood up, looking at Barr.
‘Something wrong?’ the managing partner asked, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
West’s jaw dropped. How could he – had he been emailed too? ‘I …’ Words failed to issue from his lips and he found himself sitting down, the bunch of papers still clutched in both hands.
‘What’s up, Graham?’ Barr was standing over him now, his brows drawn down.
‘Nothing. I just felt a bit faint when I bent down, that’s all. No breakfast. Probably low blood sugar, shouldn’t have worked out at the gym so early …’ he gabbled. ‘Did you want something, Alec?’
Barr frowned as if he were about to speak, then gave his head a tiny shake. ‘Just to let you know the police will be in at two-thirty this afternoon. We’re meeting them in the boardroom. Okay?’
Graham West swallowed hard. Police. He’d forgotten about them but as Barr’s eyes bored into his face, he replied. ‘Fine. Fine. Thanks.’
Barr nodded then, turning at the door, he paused. ‘Sure you’re all right, Graham? Anything troubling you, you just need to come to me. Okay?’
‘Of course. Thanks.’ West felt the moisture trickle down the back of his shirt as Barr finally left the room. What had he done? Why hadn’t he taken the opportunity to tell Alec about the message that lay mixed up in all these papers?
Sinking back into the chair, he knew the decision had been made. He’d follow up this poisonous demand and this time he’d do it on his own.
‘Ha! We’ve landed a fish!’ JJ chuckled and rubbed his hands with the sort of glee that reminded Michael of the pantomime villains of his youth. Only this man wasn’t playing a part. His antics were for real. ‘One of your old bosses, isn’t it?’ he asked.
The two men were sitting side by side, gazing at the laptop between them. Graham West’s reply had appeared on the screen: give me time, it said. A short response but one that told Michael Turner plenty. He was scared, that was one thing. And he’d probably have to involve other people. But would he come up with the sort of money JJ was demanding? Michael Turner’s head was spinning. JJ had revealed the price that he’d been paid for Michael’s execution, chuckling, ‘Who wants to kill you that bad, son?’
Who indeed? Michael wondered. Duncan Forbes had assured him that everything would be fine. And he’d believed him. But after the last few days anything was possible, even the thought that Duncan had sent him into the arms of an assassin.
So why hadn’t he returned this email? Why had the answer come from Graham West? Michael glanced at his companion who was busy tapping away on the keyboard. There were things JJ wasn’t telling him.
‘Just how much do you know about all this?’ Michael asked.
The older man tapped the side of his nose. ‘Enough,’ he said, then smiled to himself as his attention was taken up once again with the information on the screen.
Michael sighed. He’d dropped out of the world days ago, or was it weeks? No newspapers or radio had come his way, only that endless stream of country music that JJ had insisted on playing all the way down from New York. A hunger to know what was happening on the other side of the world was gnawing away at him. There was a land line here. The laptop was plugged into a wall socket so there had to be a telephone but so far he’d been unable to find any trace of a handset or even a mobile phone, though he was certain JJ had one somewhere. One call, that’s all he wanted to make, just one call to see if there was any way out of this crazy mess.
