by Alex Gray
‘I have most distressing news to pass on to you all.’ The head teacher’s voice broke suddenly and he put a handkerchief to his mouth, prompting a murmur from the assembled staff. Had Eric been sacked? The question was on everybody’s lips.
Manson raised a hand for silence and the ripple of talk died away.
‘One of our Fourth Year pupils, Julie Donaldson, has been found dead in suspicious circumstances,’ he said, taking a deep breath as gasps of horror echoed around the hall.
Maggie felt sick. She’d heard enough from her husband over the years to know what suspicious circumstances meant. Julie had been murdered.
‘Strathclyde Police has asked me to keep this within the school. Though obviously it will be in the news before much longer,’ Manson continued, his voice becoming stronger. ‘But I urge you all to resist any overtures from the media. Details about Julie’s life here and the recent accusation of sexual harassment will no doubt come to the fore. But,’ he paused, the familiar gimlet eye roving over them all, ‘I would like to think that no member of Muirpark staff would be so crass as to speak to the press. Julie’s parents are having a difficult enough time as it is without that.’
‘What about the pupils?’ someone called out.
Manson pursed his lips together before answering. ‘Can’t do anything about them or about their families today. But I would ask all registration teachers to have a word about this first thing tomorrow. Emphasise just how bad it will be for the Donaldsons.’
‘You mean appeal to their better natures?’ another voice retorted sarcastically. Maggie turned to see who had spoken and saw Herriot’s sneering face sitting a few places along from her. Glancing at her neighbour, Maggie was appalled to see a similar expression. Had they no sense of pity?
‘What about Eric?’ This time a woman had posed a question and Maggie Lorimer was relieved to hear Sandie’s voice coming from somewhere down at the front.
‘Mr Chalmers is helping the police with their investigation,’ Manson replied quietly.
Immediately the hall erupted in an explosion of talk.
‘Always thought he was too sweet to be wholesome.’ Myra Claythorn had turned to Maggie with a bitter smile on her face. ‘All that religious claptrap!’
Maggie Lorimer wanted to punch the woman straight in her smug face, watch the shock as she reeled backwards off her seat. It took all her self-control to keep her voice steady as she replied. ‘In this country we consider people innocent until they are tried and found guilty in a court of law,’ she countered.
‘And that won’t be long for pretty boy Chalmers!’ Claythorn exclaimed with something approaching relish.
Maggie shook her head, not deigning to reply any further. The woman was pure and utter poison and anything she said would be wasted on her.
The meeting was breaking up and Maggie almost ran to the front of the hall, seeking out her friend.
‘Oh, Sandie.’ Maggie’s voice caught as the two women clasped hands, their thoughts unspoken: what was going to happen to Eric?
‘Well, should we go?’ Sandie asked at last, dropping Maggie’s grasp.
Maggie looked at her blankly.
‘We were going to see Ruth, remember?’
‘Oh, help! I completely forgot.’ Maggie bit her lower lip guiltily.
‘Think she might be glad of some company right now,’ Sandie suggested, threading her arm through Maggie’s and leading them away from the knots of men and women that had gathered around the hall.
Queen’s Court was situated to the west of Anniesland Cross, its small modern terraces dwarfed by two rows of dark red stone tenements that curved around from Great Western Road towards the dual carriageway that climbed up past the Vet School into the leafy suburbs of Milngavie. They’d taken Sandie’s car, an elderly Audi that was the Business Studies teacher’s pride and joy. ‘Half the house and all of the motor!’ Sandie had announced gleefully on the day that her divorce settlement had been finalised. A quick stop at a baby shop in Partick had allowed Sandie to purchase a tiny dress and matching cardigan for baby Ashleigh.
‘Right, here goes,’ Sandie announced, switching off the ignition and nudging her pal’s arm. ‘You first, Mags. She knows you better.’
Raising her eyebrows at this blatant untruth, Maggie nevertheless made sure that she was out of the car and at the Chalmers’ front gate in front of Sandie.
Standing there, listening to the dying echoes of the doorbell, Maggie wondered not for the first time if they were doing the right thing. Would Ruth be pleased to see them or was this simply an intrusion into her privacy?
A noise at her back made her turn to see a couple walking towards the garden gate.
‘Mrs Chalmers?’
‘No. This is the Sheridans’ now. Chalmers moved away last week. We’re here for the housewarming.’ Sandie had spoken quickly before Maggie could even begin to gather her wits. A swift glance at the man and woman hovering over the privet hedge, their eyes full of questions, told Maggie what her friend had already grasped: reporters. Somehow they’d got wind of things already.
‘Oh, right. Know where they moved to?’ the man asked.
‘Haven’t a clue. Sorry. Oh, hiya Mary, can we come in?’ Sandie pushed Maggie forward as a bewildered-looking Ruth Chalmers opened the door, then closed it behind her, leaving two puzzled-looking journalists checking their Blackberries.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Can we come into your kitchen, Ruth?’ Sandie was already steering the young mother away from the front of the house.
A thin wail came from upstairs and before anyone could explain, Ruth smiled an apology and left them in the hallway.
‘Okay, Mrs Lorimer. What do you say to a nice cup of instant coffee?’ Sandie breathed out a sigh of relief as they wandered into the dining room of the little terraced house that led to a bright airy kitchen.
‘Yes, please, though I could murder a gin and tonic right now,’ Maggie muttered, her voice muted. She glanced out of the dining-room window and saw the two reporters climb into a red car.
‘Come on!’ Sandie hissed. ‘Don’t let them see you staring or they’ll guess I’ve thrown them a wobbly!’
Ruth Chalmers’ kitchen was kept surprisingly tidy for a couple whose lives had recently been disrupted by a new baby. The work surfaces and pale cream units were spotless and from each wooden doorknob little fabric hearts of red gingham had been suspended. Through the kitchen window Maggie could see a line of washing fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Baby dresses that looked like dollies’ clothes hung in a row beside a variety of other tiny garments. She bit her lip, keeping back a sudden wave of self-pity that threatened to overwhelm her. If only . . .
‘Here.’ Sandie handed her a mug of coffee. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ she added, following her friend’s gaze. ‘Smelly socks under the bed can put you off them for life.’ She grimaced. Maggie smiled. Sandie’s sixteen-year-old, Charlie, was going through what she knew to be a typical teenage phase and his mum never tried to pretend that her boy was anything other than a pain in the neck.
‘Aw, Ruth, she’s gorgeous!’ Sandie had turned away and Maggie put down her coffee mug as baby Ashleigh was brought into the kitchen.
‘Thanks. We think so too, but we are biased after all. Coming through? Time for a feed, I’m afraid.’
The three women moved back into the lounge at the front of the house, Ruth cradling her baby who peered wide-eyed from the folds of a woollen shawl. Once seated in a comfortable chair, Ruth undid the buttons of her blouse and in moments they were rewarded with the sight of Ashleigh feeding contentedly at her mother’s breast.
‘Fair takes it out of you, but I do love nursing her,’ Ruth told them shyly. Certainly the new mum looked relaxed and happy sitting in the rocking chair, her feet up on a low stool. ‘She’s a right hungry wee baby, has us up loads during the night, bless her,’ Ruth told them.
Maggie forced a smiled. Eric’s wife ought to be cocooned
in her own little world right now. Claims against her husband must have upset them both dreadfully, she thought, noting the dark circles under Ruth’s eyes. The woman was exhausted and probably not just from Ashleigh’s constant demands.
‘It was awfully nice of you to come today.’
Sandie shrugged. ‘Och, couldn’t let this wee one grow any bigger or she’d never have fitted this outfit,’ she said, proffering the hastily bought gift bag.
Maggie resisted the temptation to raise her eyebrows at this blatant lie. Her friend was proving pretty adept at the art of sweet deception. ‘Here,’ she said, rummaging in her own capacious bag, ‘thought this might be useful,’ then handed over the tissue-wrapped package containing a soft, pure-woollen blanket.
‘Oh, thanks, girls. This is lovely.’ Ruth’s eyes softened. ‘Why don’t you undo them for me? Got my hands a bit full,’ she continued, her pale cheeks flushed with pleasure.
It was while Maggie was unwrapping the gift that the question was posed, making her freeze, pink satin ribbon trailing onto the floor.
‘Sandie, why did you call me Mary?’
They had waited until the young mother had finished nursing the baby, Sandie prevaricating all the time. But then it had all come out: Julie’s death, Eric’s putative involvement and the narrow escape from the two reporters at the Chalmers’ front gate. Ruth had sat quite still, listening as the women had taken turns to explain. Then, with a shudder that seemed to convulse her whole body, she’d begun to cry. A pot of tea later, they’d talked round and round the subject, never wavering in their belief that Eric was innocent. Then, before they had left, Ruth had stood up, her voice surprisingly strong: Remember to pray for Julie’s family, won’t you? She had even managed a watery smile, leaving Maggie and Sandie feeling a little bit humble. It was almost dusk when they heard the door close behind them.
‘God, that was awful!’ Sandie slumped into the Audi and looked across at Maggie. ‘D’you think we were right to tell her?’
Maggie Lorimer made a face. ‘Don’t think we had much choice, did we? You’d spun her enough yarns to make one great big web. She had to know sooner or later, though.’
‘But shouldn’t Eric—’
‘Eric’s not home yet and we don’t know what’s happening down at the station.’
‘Can’t you phone Bill?’
Maggie shook her dark curls. ‘No. It’s bad enough that it’s my school that’s linked to this new case. A conflict of interests might upset things.’
‘But you don’t know if it is his case yet, do you?’ Sandie persisted.
Maggie sighed heavily. ‘No. But d’you know what? It wouldn’t surprise me if his name’s already on it.’
And as the big car gathered speed away from Queen’s Court, Maggie pondered on the horror of Julie Donaldson’s murder, the likelihood of her husband being Senior Investigating Officer and the problems that could lie ahead for both of them.
CHAPTER 22
‘He’s no here, wee toerag. Whaddye want him fur anyway?’ The man who stood blocking the doorway looked up at them belligerently, his rheumy eyes full of hatred. The polis were the enemy round here, especially in a flat that was listed as the permanent address of one of Drumchapel’s known drug couriers. Tam Kerrigan had jinked his way in and out of trouble, often thanks to Kerrigan Senior – who now faced the two policemen. The old man swayed slightly then held on to the door as if to hide the fact that he was the worse for drink, a gesture that could have been taken as further barring the officers’ entry.
‘Got a warrant?’ he sneered. Then clocking the glance that passed between the officers, Kerrigan began to close the door. ‘Piss aff. He’s no here.’
John Weir stuck his foot in the doorway. ‘Where is he then?’
Something in the detective constable’s tone made Kerrigan’s eyes flit nervously from one of them to the other. Then he shrugged as though he was conceding defeat. ‘Ach, maybe he’s doon the Aggro. It’s a boxing night.’
‘Thank you Mister—’ But as soon as Weir moved, the door was firmly shut in their faces, leaving them standing staring at one another.
‘Okay, the Argo it is, then.’ Weir nodded. ‘But we’ll maybe be back before long,’ he added, jerking a thumb in the direction of the Kerrigans’ flat.
Kyle thumped the dark blue punchbag, his eyes concentrated on a point directly in the centre. School had been a real drag and everyone was talking about how Julie had dogged off again. All day Kyle had rerun the scene on the steps of Borders bookshop, asking himself over and over why he had been so tactless. She was a daft wee lassie, that was all. No real harm to her. But her face, darkened with rage, was one that the boy simply couldn’t erase from his mind.
That he’d still fancied her had come unbidden into Kyle’s mind more than once and now he tried to dismiss the thought, lashing out at the punchbag as if that could cure this feeling of unease.
It was the sudden silence that made Kyle turn around, rather than the sound of his name. Then he was standing alone, everybody’s eyes directed towards him. All activity in the room had ceased, the boys watching Kyle from their positions on the floor mats, the adult helpers suddenly standing still. It was as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for Kyle to make the first move.
‘What?’ he asked, dropping his gloved fists to his sides as the two strangers began to walk towards him.
It had to be his da. They wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. What had he got up to now? Kyle glanced at the two men in the front seats. They’d shown Dave their warrant cards, asked if they could take Kyle down to the police station. Then everything had moved in slow motion: getting the gloves off, picking up his bag, someone else handing him a white towel he didn’t remember bringing with him, and following the two men downstairs to the waiting car. He was aware of a burning sensation in his ears and knew if he could look in a mirror he’d see them red and tingling, the way they always went when he was nervous.
‘What’s happened?’ he ventured at last, leaning forward to make himself heard above the engine noise. They were travelling quite fast down the boulevard and Kyle could feel the road bumps jar his stomach. No. He wouldn’t throw up. Swallowing hard, Kyle repeated his question. ‘What’s going on? Can you no tell me? Is it my dad?’
‘We need your help with something, son,’ one of the men replied. ‘It’ll all be explained once we’re at the station.’
Kyle sat back, folding his arms. Load of rubbish. It wasn’t Da, then. He swore softly under his breath. Must be Tam or Jamesey. But why bother to drag him down the cop shop? Kyle bit hard into the remnants of a much-raggled fingernail, anxiety making him draw blood. Jamesey. Had to be him. One of the policemen whispered something to the other and cocked his head in Kyle’s direction. Catching the moment, Kyle knew then that it was serious. Had something happened to his brother? And if so, why wouldn’t they tell him? And where was Da? As the car sped towards the West End of the city, past the concrete finger of Anniesland Cross, past rows of elegant terraces then down towards the university, the questions multiplied until Kyle’s head hurt.
Then the car stopped and one of the men was helping him out, taking his arm. So he wouldn’t run away? Or was he being nice, preparing him for bad news? Kyle glanced at their faces but nothing he saw gave any clue as to what lay ahead as he climbed the steps into the police station.
‘He’s in there,’ DC Weir told Lorimer. ‘Seems in a bit of a sweat. Dead quiet most of the time, though.’
‘Okay, the police surgeon’s still here and can take a swab from the boy. See if we can make it quick.’
Lorimer’s manpower was sorely stretched with some of the team still on the Nancy Fraser hunt alongside officers from various divisions throughout the city, and others that he’d chased home before another day dawned. The beginning of any serious case was a balancing act; manpower had to be deployed right away and sometimes for long stretches at a time but keeping his officers sharp meant giving them a chance to go home, s
ee their families, get a decent kip. It wouldn’t be the first case to have suffered from officers so weary that they made basic errors of judgement. And Lorimer didn’t want any mistakes made now. That was why the SIO himself was opening the door to Interview Room Two, where Kyle Kerrigan sat waiting.
‘We’ve sent for your father, Kyle. He’ll not be too long,’ Lorimer began. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
The boy’s eyebrows shot up, revealing pale grey eyes fringed with long lashes and an expression of feigned nonchalance as he shook his head. Lorimer understood. He was the polis and this was a lad whose family had form. He wanted to try to win the boy’s confidence, if he could, before Kerrigan Senior made his appearance. He’d hand the interview over to DS Wilson when the father arrived, maybe sit in to see how things progressed, but first the DCI wanted to see the boy for himself.
Kyle’s whole body showed signs of strain, his shoulders nearly up around his ears; it was natural given where he was right now. As Lorimer cast his eye over the boy he saw a good-looking youngster. There was a small scar below his right eye, just visible under a fading suntan, and his brown hair was swept to the side, slick with sweat, revealing a furrowed brow. If that generous mouth had been capable of smiling right now, Lorimer reckoned that Kyle Kerrigan would be quite a heartbreaker.
‘Been to the boxing tonight, have you, Kyle? I believe you’re pretty good in the ring.’
‘Who told you that?’ Kyle’s head came up and his nostrils flared suddenly as if he’d had to take a deep breath.
‘A teacher you know: Mr Chalmers from Muirpark Secondary.’
Kyle’s frown deepened. ‘Chalmers?’
It was obvious that the boy was genuinely puzzled.
‘Are you sure you don’t want something to drink? Water maybe?’
‘Aye, okay,’ Kyle replied, never taking his eyes off Lorimer for a single moment. The DCI was acutely conscious of those grey eyes boring into him as he stood up and poured water from the litre bottle into a plastic cup. This boy was a boxer, trained to focus on his opponent and that was exactly what he was doing now. But Lorimer didn’t want to be cast in that role so he shifted his chair to one side and made the boy turn sideways to face him.
