by Alex Gray
‘Miss Jackson works here too?’
Tannock nodded. ‘Serena and Daniel were part of the firm, Chief Inspector. Rather like an extended family, I suppose. They never seemed to want to do anything else but work with their father.’
‘And Mrs Jackson?’
‘No. Lady Jackson didn’t come here all that much. Lots of other commitments, you see.’
Lorimer winced at his faux pas, though Tannock’s stress on the word Lady had been minimal.
‘And Miss Jackson, what is her role in Jackson Tannock, might I ask?’
Tannock looked at him through narrowed eyes and Lorimer wondered if the man thought this an impertinent question. Tough, he told himself. It was his job to ask awkward questions. And he hadn’t actually answered his initial question about Serena Jackson, he suddenly noticed.
‘Serena didn’t have a particular role in the firm as such,’ Tannock began, avoiding Lorimer’s direct look. ‘She was more of a sort of ambassador for us. Looked after the clients’ social arrangements and that sort of thing,’ he added in a way that Lorimer guessed was deliberately vague. Serena Jackson had acquired a sinecure within the firm by the sounds of it, he told himself. That was something his DI had failed to mention. Was she deliberately trying to play down her friendship with the Jacksons? It was odd, surely, when Martin could so easily have provided such background details.
The Detective Superintendent’s expression remained quizzical and in the ensuing silence Tannock shifted in his seat as if uncomfortable under that distinctive blue gaze. It was something that many hardened criminals had experienced in the confinement of a police interview room; something that could and sometimes did cause them to reveal things they’d have preferred to keep hidden.
‘Serena wasn’t really qualified to take over anything on the technical or financial side of the firm,’ Tannock said at last. ‘Lovely girl, though: a real asset to us in all sorts of other ways.’
Lorimer nodded his understanding. Serena Jackson was possibly a decorative part of the outfit, kept by her father, given nominal status and probably a grossly inflated salary. If she’d been a child sheltered from the harshness of the real world it was not surprising that she’d cracked up after the double tragedy of losing her parents: a tragedy that no amount of money could change.
‘Do you have family yourself, sir?’ Lorimer inquired. It was not an idle question. He wondered if any Tannock offspring had been treated like the two Jackson kids.
‘Three, actually.’ Tannock smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘One’s a consultant anaesthetist in London, one’s making a fortune in Texas and the other runs a publishing house.’
‘You must be proud of them.’
‘I am, Superintendent. And Sir Ian was just as proud of his two children,’ Tannock added quietly, his shrewd glance showing that he hadn’t missed the import of Lorimer’s questions.
‘It might sound a little melodramatic, sir, but did Sir Ian have any enemies?’ Lorimer asked, changing the subject.
‘I don’t know, Superintendent, and that’s the truth. Ian and I had known one another for many years. Our partnership had grown much closer since we formed the business, naturally. But I wasn’t privy to all of his financial dealings, you must understand, just to those that affected Jackson Tannock.’
‘He had other businesses?’
‘Oh, yes. Ian had what you might describe as a varied portfolio. Some of his assets were in overseas companies pre-dating the launch of Jackson Tannock and demanded comparatively little of his time, but they were lucrative nonetheless.’
‘And you think there may have been something in one of these companies that could have engendered enough hate to cause his death?’
Tannock sat up suddenly, alarmed at the brutality of Lorimer’s question.
‘I didn’t say that, Superintendent. Nor did I at any time imply such a thing!’
‘But it is a possibility?’ Lorimer added quietly.
‘How would I know?’ Tannock threw his hands in the air. ‘Ian didn’t confide such things to me. Ever. And if there had been something troubling him I think I would have been the first to notice.’
Lorimer nodded, wanting to say Yes, Mr Tannock, I think you would. This man was a perceptive sort, he guessed, and would be good at reading the people who came into his orbit.
He sighed then shook his head. ‘We have to try to understand what sort of person would deliberately begin a fire when two people were inside that house. So we naturally look for a reason.’
The two men looked at one another for a long moment, then Tannock sank back into the squashy settee.
‘We thought it must have been kids from Port Glasgow. A stupid dare that went wrong,’ he muttered. Then once more he caught Lorimer’s gaze. ‘But you wouldn’t be here just now if that was what you thought. Right?’
‘It looks increasingly like a case of premeditated murder,’ Lorimer told him. Okay, that was perhaps stretching the truth a little, but he had a hunch that Dodgson’s evidence was going to turn up trumps. He could suggest something to provoke a reaction. See what way Tannock would jump.
‘I don’t know, really, I don’t. To kill a man who’d done so much good in his life. And an innocent woman,’ he tailed off, his voice beginning to show the first signs of real emotion.
Lorimer watched as the man took a folded white handkerchief from his inside pocket and blew noisily into it. He had seen lots of people simulate grief before. But this seemed quite genuine to him. Suddenly the trappings of wealth, the glorious view from this huge window, were diminished by the bowed figure before him who had lost his business partner. And more than a business partner, Lorimer realised. From the way he looked right now it was clear that Ian Jackson had been this man’s friend.
‘C’n I speak tae Mr Lorimer?’
Maggie frowned for a moment then, as she recognised his voice, her face creased into a huge smile. ‘Flynn!’ she exclaimed. ‘How are you?’
‘Aye, awright. I wis wantin tae speak tae the man. Is he in?’
‘Not at the moment, Flynn. Can I get him to call you back?’
‘Aw, away catchin crims, is he?’ the voice replied, a hint of humour making Maggie smile.
‘I’m just going out myself, Flynn,’ Maggie said, then paused. Mum had helped this lad when he’d been down on his luck. ‘My mum’s in hospital,’ she told him.
‘Mrs Finlay? Whit’s wrang? Naethin serious I hope.’
Maggie bit her lip then took a deep breath. ‘She’s had a stroke, I’m afraid. We don’t know how long she’ll be in . . .’
‘Hey, that’s terrible, man!’ Flynn said. ‘Are ye goin therr on yer own? I’m up the town the now. Here, I can get a bus and be over and see her masel, if ye want. Whit ward’s she in?’
Maggie could have hugged him. Flynn’s presence was exactly what she’d like tonight. And she bet that her mum would as well. Glancing at her watch, Maggie told him the visiting times and described the ward her mum was in.
‘Aye, jist in thon main block. No so very far frae where I was, right?’
Flynn’s words brought it all back to Maggie, then. She’d been away in Florida, her husband all on his own here at home. There had been the murder in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall and Flynn, a young homeless lad who’d hung about the place, had been seriously injured during the ensuing investigation. After his discharge from the Southern General, Lorimer had taken him home to look after him, something that the childless school teacher had resented at first. But it had been Maggie’s choice to be away from Scotland that winter and Flynn had become almost part of the family by the time she returned. Her mum, in particular, had had a soft spot for the lad and they’d kept in touch ever since. Now he worked for Glasgow Parks Department over on the south side of the city, not too far from his flat in Govanhill.
Maggie put the phone down thoughtfully. She hoped the boy wasn’t in any sort of trouble. He’d been in with a bad crowd, dealing in drugs, but the accident had given Flynn some sort of
sense of his own mortality, Lorimer had told her, and so he’d changed his ways, big time.
Joseph Alexander Flynn pocketed his mobile phone thoughtfully then gave a grin that could only be described as wicked. The phone in his pocket had cost him a week’s wages after ‘losing’ the one that DCI Lorimer had given him as a Christmas gift. That had been fun, Flynn remembered, holding up the policeman’s plane with a fake bomb scare at Glasgow Airport. He wouldn’t get away with that sort of thing now, though, he told himself, recalling the attempted terrorist firebombing some time afterwards that had trebled security in and around the building.
Poor old Mrs Fin, he mused, recalling the bossy old lady who had done her best to fuss over him when he’d first moved into the wee flat he now called home. Maggie Lorimer’s mum was a warrior and no mistake; she’d not take kindly to being stuck inside a hospital, that was for sure. Raking in his other pocket, Flynn found a few pound coins. He’d enough for his bus fare and more. Och, why not? Turning into RS McColl’s, the young man searched the rows of sweeties to see what might take his old pal’s fancy.
The number twenty-three bus travelled from the city centre all the way out to the countryside and the town of Erskine. It wasn’t a place Flynn had ever been to but he knew it was where the famous hospital for ex-servicemen and women was located. Maybe, he thought, gazing out at the darkened streets, he’d hop on this bus one weekend and stay on till the final terminus, just to see what it was like. For now, all the views he could see were of shuttered premises each side of the street, with an occasional glimpse of the huddled masses across the river. The bus turned this way and that until it came to the road that ran parallel to the Clyde, stopping near the complex known as the Quay to disgorge a few passengers on their way to the cinema or casino. Then, trundling along past the famous Angel building - its winged figure towering loftily over the intersection of two main roads - the bus headed along through the newer flats of Govan, past the glass edifices of the BBC and Scottish Television until it snaked its way around Govan Town Hall and the old dockyards. It was too dark to see the water but Flynn could make out the light on top of the Science Centre, a red needlepoint against the cobalt sky.
When they reached the stop nearest to the Southern General, Flynn wasn’t surprised to see most of his fellow passengers rise to follow him. Visiting time would bring families from all over the city, he supposed, noticing a wee lassie holding her mammy’s hand and jigging beside her, singing some song that only she could understand. Maybe they were going to see a granny? Or was the wee one’s daddy in the hospital? Flynn quickened his step, anxious suddenly to see old Mrs Fin for himself.
PC Dodgson had been first on the scene, so it was only natural that the new SIO should ask to be taken up to Kilmacolm with him. But, thought Rhoda Martin, the new Super wasn’t giving her the place she ought to have in this review team. Why not ask her to join them? She seethed, watching as the dark blue Lexus headed out of the backyard and out of sight. Dodgson was a typical wee arse licker, just like that cow Clark. If she didn’t watch out they’d both be over Lorimer like the proverbial rash. And where would that leave her? Stepping back from the window, DI Martin heard her name being called.
She had loads to do for him, hadn’t she? So better make sure it was done efficiently. Not like the last time.
The road from Greenock ran steeply upwards, away from the coastline below them: Clune Brae seemed to teeter on a cliff edge before turning back inland to the gentler greener slopes of Upper Port Glasgow. Up here the morning mist had given way to a steady drizzle and, as they rounded a corner, a sharp blast of wind struck the car as if to remind them this Scottish winter was by no means spent.
‘You’d been coming in from this direction, on Port Glasgow Road?’
Dodgson nodded. ‘We’d been answering a call when I spotted the smoke. The trees thin out about here . . . see the gap? That’s where the cemetery is. The Jacksons’ house is about a quarter of a mile from the road. You can see - sorry, you used to be able to see the turrets through the trees in winter. Up here,’ he added indicating the two white posts to their left.
Masses of rhododendrons screened everything from their view as Lorimer drove towards the scene of the crime. It was a peaceful-looking place, made all the quieter by the dark bushes and stands of larches on either side of the drive, their needles soft fringes of pale gold on the damp ground.
When they rounded a bend Lorimer slowed down and stopped. The photographs of the crime scene didn’t do justice to this magnificent wreckage. He’d asked to see an original picture of the house but so far nobody had provided one. Still, he could imagine something of what it must have been like. The area in front of the mansion was a curving sweep of rabbit-nibbled lawn, the tarmac driveway running all the way around in a huge arc. What might have been a stable block or garaging for a fleet of cars lay to the right of the house, now a mere outline of walls and broken rafters. But it was the main building that drew the eye: a mass of grey rubble heaped below the remaining structure, its twin towers shattered and broken. It was, Lorimer told Maggie later, as if some petulant giant had taken a mallet and knocked the whole thing down. It looked so old already, he thought. Only a few weeks ago this had been a house, a home filled with the sound of human voices, and now all that was left was this mess of stones and blackened timbers. The enormity of the crime swept over Lorimer, suddenly making him feel a sense of outrage against whoever had decided to light that flame.
‘Show me,’ he told the young police constable, opening the car door at last.
The scene-of-crime tape was still in place despite a vagabond wind that threatened to take it skyward. Pushing it aside, Dodgson pointed to a heap of broken stones overflowing on to the dead grass. ‘That’s where the front door was,’ he told Lorimer. ‘When we got here the place was in flames but the upper floors were still okay. I mean, they hadn’t collapsed at that stage. The door was open and I tried to go in but it was impossible.’ He looked ruefully at Lorimer as if the senior officer might berate him for failing to enact a hopeless rescue.
‘You’re sure it was open?’
Dodgson nodded. ‘Later on the men from the fire service told us it could have been the heat that made the door burst open. Anyway, that was where the smoke seemed thickest.’
‘And from where you took that fume sample.’
‘Aye.’ Dodgson heaved a sigh. ‘We couldn’t do a thing so we just called the fire crew as well as our own HQ. We were told to keep back from the house in case anything collapsed. So that’s what we did.’
‘Not everyone can be a hero,’ Lorimer remarked mildly. ‘And you may already have done more than could have been expected of you.’
‘But the people!’ Dodgson blurted out. ‘They burned to death in there!’
Lorimer glanced briefly at the young officer; Dodgson had tears in his eyes that were nothing to do with this bitter February wind. Were they tears of remorse for being unable to do anything about the Jacksons? Or tears of rage at whoever had committed this crime? Suddenly Lorimer knew that this police constable shared his sense of outrage and was heartened by the knowledge that this was why they were both here, to push this investigation to its limits and bring someone to justice.
‘Can you spare a minute, sir?’
Lorimer looked up from the management policy file opened on his desk. DI Rhoda Martin had come into the room and, without waiting for a response, picked up a chair and set it down at an angle from him. As she crossed them, the DI revealed a pair of shapely legs in a skirt that would normally have been considered too short for a senior officer.
‘DI Martin, what may I do for you?’ Lorimer asked and immediately regretted his turn of phrase as he saw the salacious grin spreading across the woman’s face. It was then that he noticed the low-cut shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a froth of lacy bra and the hint of cleavage between her breasts.
Taking his glance as approval, Martin began to swing one leg up and down in a deliberately provocative manne
r.
‘It’s what I can do for you, Superintendent,’ she said.
Lorimer blinked, not willing to believe what his eyes were telling him. DI Rhoda Martin was coming on to him? How often had she done this to other senior officers? And, he thought cynically, was she quite practised in doing this to get what she wanted?
As his eyes narrowed into a frown, Martin quickly uncrossed her legs. ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you about my personal knowledge of the Jackson case,’ she said, wriggling in her seat and pulling aimlessly at the hem of her skirt. Her tone, he noticed, had immediately become businesslike.
Lorimer merely looked at her, his fingers tapping impatiently on the file as if to indicate that he had other important matters in hand. Let her become uncomfortable, he thought, allowing the silence between them to speak volumes; it’s no more than she deserves. But he was cursing the woman inwardly for adding more problems to their working relationship, even as she rattled on to cover her embarrassment.
