by Alex Gray
‘Ah, yes. Kind of you,’ Lorimer said, thinking immediately what a trite remark that was. Daniel Jackson looked like a kind man, his handsome face full of concern as he uttered his sister’s name. ‘You’re close, then?’
‘Oh, yes. We do lots of things together. Always have. Skiing, cycling, sailing: you name it, Serena and I tend to spend a lot of our leisure time with one another.’
‘And your parents? Did you spend a lot of time with them?’
For a split second Lorimer could have sworn that an expression of anger passed over the man’s face but it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.
‘No. Mum and Dad were keen golfers and it wasn’t a game that either of us aspired to, I’m afraid,’ he replied, swinging one leg across the other. ‘Dad and I saw one another at work, of course. And Serena always had Mum to see that things were okay for her at home. But we weren’t a family that did a lot of stuff together as adults,’ he smiled then, as if he really didn’t mind sharing this little bit of his private life with this policeman.
Lorimer nodded as if accepting the man’s words. ‘But you all got along together amicably?’
‘Oh, yes. Oh, never any question about that!’ Daniel’s eyebrows shot up as if slightly shocked by the very idea. ‘We were a very ordinary sort of family,’ he added, unconsciously echoing the sentiments expressed earlier by his sister. For a moment Lorimer wanted to lean forward and tell him earnestly that ordinary people weren’t multi-millionaires burned to death deliberately in their own homes, but he remained sitting still in the comfortable wing chair, pondering the statement instead.
‘Your position in the firm, sir. You are head of Human Resources, is that right?’
‘Director of Human Resources,’ Daniel Jackson’s polite voice corrected him.
‘Yes, of course. Sorry. But weren’t you due to be promoted into a more senior role?’ Lorimer gave a frown as though he was uncertain of some information he had been given. It was a ploy he used when needed; playing the thick copper sometimes paid off.
Daniel Jackson’s sharp intake of breath and a tightening of his features was enough to make Lorimer see that he’d hit gold. It was just as Tannock had said; the young man had been passed over by his own father for promotion. But was that enough motivation to destroy his parents and family home by fire?
‘I think you’ve been misinformed. Though perhaps things will be a little different now. After all,’ he smiled that handsome, disarming smile, ‘I’m really needed far more these days in a senior managerial capacity.’
Lorimer nodded, resisting the urge to tug an imaginary forelock. Yet, although Jackson exuded the sort of social polish that defined his class, he was also possessed of a natural charm that the detective found engaging. Still, he mustn’t be deflected from his purpose: he had to dig under the social veneer presented by this man, however painful that might be.
‘I must ask you the same question that I asked Miss Jackson, sir. Can you think of any reason why someone would have wanted either of your parents dead?’
Daniel Jackson blinked as though Lorimer had indeed reached across and invaded his space. His tiny shake of the head seemed to indicate that it was not a question he had been expecting.
‘There appears to be some recent forensic evidence that suggests a person had broken into your parents’ home to deliberately set fire to it during the night.’
Lorimer watched the effect of his words on the young man, seeing the parted lips and eyes widening in horror.
‘But who . . .?’ he asked at last, in a whisper.
‘That’s what I wanted you to tell me, sir. Who might have had reason to wish either your father or your mother, or indeed both of them, to die?’
Daniel Jackson had uncrossed his legs and was now sitting stiffly, his arms around his body as though to control a sudden fit of shivering.
‘I really don’t know. Dad . . . there were people in his past . . . I don’t know much about it, but . . .’ He bit his lip then let a huge sigh escape from his throat. ‘My father was a good man, Superintendent. A well-respected man. But, like every human being on the planet, he’d made mistakes. Some of these were matters of misjudgement.’
Lorimer listened as Daniel Jackson spoke clearly and slowly as if weighing every word. He was being careful now, eyeing the policeman with a new wariness in his manner. Lorimer nodded encouragingly as if expecting more.
‘There were men who occasionally cropped up from these days. You could always tell.’ He shrugged.
‘I’m afraid you have the advantage over me there, Mr Jackson. You’ll have to describe them for me,’ Lorimer told him, trying to keep any trace of sarcasm from his tone.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Daniel frowned, looking vague for a moment as though he had lost his own train of thought. Suddenly Lorimer could see a resemblance between this man and his sister. How would he describe it if he were being cynical; the ability to dissemble, perhaps?
‘They were always from overseas. South American, I think. Tannock might be able to tell you more about them. Dad never let me join in any of their discussions but I do remember one thing.’ He looked up, his face alight with the sudden memory. ‘Dad was always in a real temper for days after any of these visits.’
‘And when was the last time any of these visits took place?’
‘Oh,’ Daniel took a deep breath then exhaled, ‘that’s a hard one. Not in the last year to my knowledge.’
Lorimer turned in his chair so that he was facing into the room. He pointed to a glass-fronted cabinet full of lead soldiers, the sort of collectable items that might have been handed down from an older family member. But it was not what was within the cabinet that interested him but the silver-framed photographs on top.
‘That’s your parents?’
Daniel nodded then half-rose from his chair. ‘Would you like to see them? Let me bring them over to the light.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Lorimer said. He watched as the man picked up the photographs delicately as though he were handling precious objects and brought them over, placing them on top of a small, polished rosewood table near the window.
‘There,’ he said, setting them down and turning the pictures so that the silver frames glinted in the sunlight. A smile played around Daniel’s lips as he looked at his late mother and father, and Lorimer could only imagine what emotion was going through his mind.
The photographs were seated portraits, each subject on their own but against a similar background that appeared to be a reception hallway of some sort. Lorimer could make out doors behind the posed figures. The Jacksons were dressed in elegant day-clothes as if preparing to go to a function: Sir Ian in his kilt and his wife wearing a formal suit that looked like silk. Lady Jackson was smiling into the camera lens, lips slightly parted as if she had just uttered something amusing. Lorimer saw a pretty, blonde woman of around fifty with hair styled into a sleek bob, and guessed that the photo must have been taken shortly before her death. The detective felt he would have liked this woman with her infectious smile, so like her son’s, he realised.
Sir Ian’s presence dominated his portrait. There was no other word for it. His whole body seemed to fill the frame. He’d been a big man, in more senses than one, thought Lorimer, seeing the large hands grasping the sides of the ornate chair, the muscular legs under the hem of the kilt, feet planted firmly together. Jackson had the look of a man who was only there on sufferance and was preparing to get up and go at any moment. But there was a direct quality in the eyes staring into the camera lens that Lorimer found fascinating. Here was a man of some considerable strength, the sort that would call a spade a spade and not mess about with any niceties. This wasn’t a man who would allow himself to be intimidated, the Superintendent was sure. Lorimer thought of the moodiness Daniel had mentioned, following these visits from South Americans. Ian Jackson’s reputation had been as a man who’d followed his own path fairly ruthlessly, but whose public generosity in recent years had become its own lege
nd.
‘Were these taken in your old home?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Mum and Dad were just off to a wedding and one of the cousins took it, I think. It was on the upstairs landing, just outside their rooms. That’s their bedroom to the left of the pictures.’
Lorimer nodded, seeing the dark varnished wooden door, its brass doorknob above a keyhole, the key protruding from the lock. A vision of flames licking at the edges of the solid door came to him then, and of two people overcome by smoke inhalation, unable to rise from their bed. At least that was the conclusion he’d read in one of the forensic reports.
‘Your sister didn’t appear to have any photographs that I could see,’ Lorimer remarked, recalling the stark emptiness of Serena Jackson’s new flat, so at odds with her brother’s comfortable home.
‘No,’ Daniel told him. ‘All of Serena’s personal things were at home. Destroyed by the fire; sports trophies . . . everything. It wasn’t just her parents she lost, you know. It was her home, too, until very recently. And now all of her childhood memories have gone as well. Can you begin to imagine what that does to a person like Serena?’ Daniel was still standing, looking down now at Lorimer, shaking his head as if bewildered that the policeman should lack an understanding of what had happened to his sister. ‘Perhaps you can see now why I’m not so happy that she had to see you on her own this morning.’
‘You would have preferred if I’d had her friend DI Martin with me, perhaps?’
Daniel Jackson frowned. ‘Who? Sorry, should I know that name?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ But that throwaway remark was interesting. Perhaps Rhoda Martin wasn’t quite as close to this family as she would have him believe.
‘We do offer counselling, though. In fact, I’m sure the family liaison officer will have brought that subject up with your sister,’ he continued smoothly.
Daniel Jackson shook his head. ‘It’s probably exactly what she needed then and still needs now, but d’you know what, Superintendent? These are the only people who might have persuaded her to go down that route.’ He tapped the silver-framed photograph. ‘And they’re not here to take charge of anything in her life any more.’
He had stayed for more than half an hour after that, seeking gently to prise more information about the Jackson parents from a son who had so obviously cared about them. But despite listening to childhood reminiscences and the success of Jackson Tannock, Lorimer found out little more than the dark hints he’d been given about the men from Ian Jackson’s past. If the daughter was stricken with grief and still suffering from shock, then her brother had dealt with his loss in a more controlled and pragmatic way but, oddly enough, Daniel had been the one to display more emotion.
Lady Jackson had not excited anyone’s imagination regarding the fire, he thought. Her high-profile husband was the more likely target of any vicious attack. Yet, why should she be so discounted? After all, crimes had been committed for reasons of passion and she had been a highly attractive woman. Lorimer shook his head. Not a single part of Colin Ray’s investigation had focused on the background of the woman other than as the corporate wife. And in Lorimer’s book making such basic assumptions was always a mistake.
CHAPTER 18
Lorimer was just about to turn the car from the cobbled lane into the yard when he braked hard to stop for a cyclist emerging from the police car park. It was a woman, but she wasn’t wearing the familiar sulphur-yellow protective waterproofs that all officers wore on cycle duty. Instead she sported a tightly fitting red jacket over black cycle leggings. He looked up for a second as she passed him, then looked again just to be certain. Yes, right enough, it was DI Rhoda Martin pedalling away from the building. A quick glance at his digital clock showed it was in fact lunchtime and he wondered whether the DI was off on some personal business.
‘That’s DI Martin?’ Lorimer smiled at the duty officer as he passed through the public office.
‘Aye, she’s off for a wee run. Has to get in practice for the race, y’know,’ the burly sergeant replied, indicating the ‘On Yer Bike’ poster on the wall.
‘Ah.’ Lorimer nodded, understanding suddenly. ‘Are there many officers from this division taking part?’
‘Aye, a few: the ones that are usually out on duty on their bikes and some from the local cycle club. DI Martin’s a member there.’
Lorimer digested this information as he mounted the stairs that would take him to his temporary office. Perhaps he should mention this to Kate Clark, if she was still keen to hunt up the cyclist that had been stalking that old lady.
As if his thought had taken substance, DC Clark emerged from her room at the very moment Lorimer turned the stairs.
‘Kate, a wee word,’ he said, motioning for the woman to follow him into his room.
He switched on the light against the sudden squall that had darkened this side of the building, which overlooked the river. ‘Sit yourself down. Now, I just saw DI Martin riding her bike. Did you know she was a cyclist?’ Lorimer began.
‘Well, yes. In fact I thought she’d be able to nose around a bit if we took the stalker thing seriously. But maybe we won’t have to!’ There was a triumphant gleam in the DC’s eye as she settled her bulk more comfortably into the chair next to Lorimer’s desk.
‘See, I’ve a nice little association with this taxi driver who keeps tabs on things for me. And I asked him to put the word out about the cyclist in case anyone had seen him following the old lady.’
‘And?’ Lorimer could feel a palpable excitement emanating from the woman.
‘And he told me something very interesting.’ Kate grinned, obviously relishing her tale.
‘Aye, come on, then.’
‘Well,’ she leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I was just coming to let you know this minute as it happens.’ She edged her chair towards him. ‘The night of the Jacksons’ fire one of the local taxi drivers was taking a fare back to Kilmacolm when they nearly collided with a cyclist fleeing down Port Glasgow Road. As if all the bats of hell were after him, was what he said, apparently. And guess what?’
Lorimer smiled, infected by her enthusiasm.
‘The cyclist looked as if he’d just come out of the drive at the foot of the Jacksons’ house.’
Lorimer’s smile faded. ‘Time?’
Kate nodded. ‘Just a wee while before the alarm went up.’
‘So this cyclist . . .?’
‘Could have been leaving the scene of the crime!’ Kate finished for him, her eyes shining.
Lorimer shook his head slowly, not in disbelief but at the way this had come to light. It wouldn’t be his first experience of finding a piece of evidence during the investigation of a different case in the same district. It happened all the time. That was one of the advantages of having a good relationship with local informants.
‘Don’t suppose there was a decent description of the cyclist?’
‘No chance. It was too dark to see much. The taxi driver was just glad he hadn’t hit the guy.’
‘And the passenger?’
‘A local businessman. Here’s his name and address. He has an account with the taxi firm.’
‘Mike Reynolds,’ Lorimer read, once Kate had passed him the piece of paper she’d been carrying.
‘Want to follow this up? See if he can remember anything about the cyclist? It’s a long shot, mind you,’ Lorimer told her. ‘The address is Kilmacolm, Lochwinnoch Road; think I might have driven along there one time,’ he mused. Lochwinnoch was home to one of the RSPB’s reserved and Lorimer and Maggie had been out there several times on field trips. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.
‘Well, sort of. It’s one of the roads with these huge big houses. Like a lot of the village up there.’ She grinned. ‘They do say it’s the place with the most expensive real estate in the whole of Scotland.’
It was a nice change to be out of the office, Kate thought, humming to herself as she drove into the village of Kilmacolm. The road wound up from
Port Glasgow, twisting and turning before easing out over an expanse of moorland on either side. Few houses could be seen along this desolate part of the countryside and Kate shivered at the low clouds on the horizon threatening snow, then gave another shudder as she passed the dark gap on her left just before the cemetery gates. She’d seen enough of the scene of crime photographs to imagine what it must have looked like in the aftermath of that fire and was thankful that it was not within her remit to go up the shadowy drive.
Lochwinnoch Road led Kate through the heart of the village, past rows of shops and over an ancient railway bridge. She had telephoned the Reynolds house, not expecting any reply, and had been surprised to find from his wife that Mr Reynolds would be at home during the afternoon. Yes, she could come up and speak to him, the woman reassured her.
