Pitch Black (book 5)

by Alex Gray

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘No woman could have done a thing like that, shooting those poor chaps.’ She handed him a mug of coffee emblazoned with the club crest.

  ‘Including Nicko Faulkner?’ Lorimer asked lightly.

  For a moment she looked uncertain, then she made a face. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say it but see, if he was knocking his wife around the way they say in the papers, well, he deserved everything he got!’ Then, as if suddenly realising to whom she was speaking, Marie McPhail covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lorimer assured her with a shrug. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.’ He took a sip of the coffee, regarding her over the rim of the mug. ‘By the way, did you ever meet Janis Faulkner?’

  ‘Aye. A nice lassie. Quiet. Well mannered. But then they say it’s the quiet ones you have tae watch, eh?’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Patrick Kennedy’s booming voice echoed along the corridor. Lorimer and the woman looked up to see the chairman standing just outside his door. ‘Marie’s been looking after you? Just bring your coffee through here,’ he added, disappearing into his office.

  ‘Better go. Thanks for the coffee,’ Lorimer grinned conspiratorially at the receptionist. ‘Mustn’t keep your great man waiting.’

  Marie McPhail looked as if she were about to reply but thought better of it, her cheeks reddening.

  It was a simple thing, but it immediately gave away the woman’s secret. Lorimer nodded to himself. So, Pat Kennedy was playing away from home, was he?

  ‘Chief Inspector, you wanted to see me.’ Kennedy grasped Lorimer’s hand in one great fist, then let it go, seating himself behind his desk and motioning the policeman to take a seat opposite. It was a gesture typical of a powerful man, putting something physical between them and establishing his authority from the outset. Lorimer responded by crossing his legs and sitting back as though in the presence of an old chum. It might irritate Kennedy, but that was what he wanted; a chance to rattle the man’s gilded cage.

  ‘Yes, Mr Kennedy. Can you tell me a bit about the club’s financial state at present?’

  Pat Kennedy looked mildly surprised as if he had been prepared for a completely different sort of question.

  ‘Well, now, you’d have to ask our accountants.’

  ‘I’m asking you,’ Lorimer persisted.

  For a moment Kennedy glared at him, but there was something in the policeman’s expression that brooked no nonsense and he sniffed instead.

  ‘We’re doing fine, Chief Inspector. The club has a well-documented investment portfolio that our shareholders can have access to any time they like. Our gates have been pretty much as expected, season tickets are at an all-time high.’ He attempted a smile but failed to bring it off. ‘What more can I tell you?’

  ‘How about your financial position regarding the transfer fees of Nicko Faulkner and Jason White?’

  ‘They were paid!’ Kennedy protested.

  ‘And recouped from the players’ life insurance policies, I suppose?’

  Lorimer’s blue stare was met by a single ‘Ah’ from the Kelvin chairman.

  Kennedy cleared his throat and licked his lips nervously before continuing, ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s our business to find things out, Mr Kennedy. If your insurance policies cover more than players’ injuries then the club might stand to make quite a killing on these two victims, if you’ll forgive my pun,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, Chief Inspector,’ Kennedy replied, bunching his fists on top of the desk, ‘but you’ve been totally misinformed. Kelvin FC does not stand to gain by these players’ deaths.’ He thumped hard, making some sheets of paper tremble on the smooth wooden surface. ‘In fact,’ he leaned forward and Lorimer saw the rage in his eyes, ‘we have made a huge financial loss with the deaths of White and Faulkner.’

  Lorimer nodded slowly. He’d suspected as much, but his questions had been designed to get under the chairman’s guard and it looked as though he had succeeded. ‘Can I ask how you intend to recoup these financial losses, Mr Kennedy?’

  ‘We don’t have to pay two rather large wages, Chief Inspector, and we won’t be making any more offers for players this season. Simple.’

  ‘So nobody in Kelvin FC would have a financial motive for their deaths, then?’

  Patrick Kennedy sank back into his chair, a frown upon his face as he realised just what sort of a trick Lorimer had played.

  ‘I think that’s a pretty cheap shot, Lorimer,’ he began. ‘Money isn’t everything you know,’ he continued, in such a sanctimonious tone that Lorimer wanted to laugh. Were Solly here, the psychologist would have spotted the lie straight off. He’d bet his police pension that money mattered a hell of a lot to that big man sitting behind the desk.

  ‘You’d be surprised what money – or the lack of it – can do to some people, Mr Kennedy,’ Lorimer countered. ‘It’s not unusual for us to see that as a motive for murder,’ he murmured.

  ‘Well, I doubt if anybody murdered these poor lads for money, Chief Inspector,’ Kennedy went on, his voice still heavy with the kind of false pity that made Lorimer’s stomach churn.

  ‘And Norman Cartwright?’

  ‘What about him? He was shot by some lunatic fan, surely? Isn’t that what your people think?’

  Lorimer didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to reveal what his team were thinking to the Kelvin chairman, but it was interesting to note that there was no sorrow in Kennedy’s voice for the referee.

  ‘And you’re quite happy that this website message is also a bit of madness?’

  ‘Look, the serious fans all register on our official website. This rogue one was just a bit of sick fun on somebody’s part. I really don’t think anybody is out to get me or anyone else in the club.’

  ‘Someone tried to pass themselves off as you in that email to Tam Baillie, though, didn’t they, Mr Kennedy?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Kennedy muttered, avoiding Lorimer’s stare.

  ‘Baillie was quite certain that it was your voice on the telephone when he made his call.’

  ‘Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he?’ Kennedy snapped.

  ‘Somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to make it seem as if you were keeping tabs on Jason White,’ Lorimer mused. ‘Wanted you in the frame for it, perhaps?’

  ‘Look, Chief Inspector, I’ve told you repeatedly I was not in contact with Baillie that night. Nor did I ask him to inform me about White’s whereabouts.’

  ‘And you still say you were here all of that evening?’

  ‘Until I went home, yes.’

  ‘And can anyone here at the club confirm that?’ Lorimer asked.

  Kennedy merely shook his head. Then the chairman’s gaze looked beyond Lorimer, making the policeman turn around. There, through the obscure glass panel of his office door, was the shadow of a figure. Neither man spoke, fully expecting the person to knock and come in. But instead, the shadow shifted and Lorimer glanced at the chairman who simply shrugged.

  ‘Whoever it was will come back if they want to see me,’ he said. ‘Now, if you have no further questions, I really have rather a lot to do.’ Kennedy looked down at his desk and rustled the papers as if to make his point.

  ‘Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch if there are any more developments.’ And with that, Lorimer stood up. Kennedy remained where he was, not deigning to show the chief inspector out.

  Once out in the corridor, Lorimer looked around to see who had been waiting to speak to the Kelvin chairman but the place was deserted and even Marie McPhail’s tiny office was empty. With a twist to his mouth, Lorimer started for the stairs. He didn’t trust Kennedy but did that mean he was a cold-blooded killer? And what on earth would he have to gain from losing yet another player?

  Maybe it was time to speak to Donnie Douglas’s teammates. And maybe they’d have some notion of where the mid-fielder had gone.

  CHAPTER 26

  He’d taken a taxi ba
ck to the Division, picked up the Lexus and now Lorimer was heading out of the city towards the leafy suburbs of Milngavie and Bearsden. Behind him the city shimmered in the heat, the grey silhouettes of high-rise flats and church spires hazy and indistinct, the river a winding ribbon separating north from south. Now he was driving down an avenue shaded by mature trees, catching the occasional glimpse of fine houses beyond their front gardens. Purple wisteria tumbled about the arched doorway of one red sandstone mansion, the unmistakable shape of a sleek Jaguar glinted from another driveway. This was one of Glasgow’s most favoured locations, expensive and understated like a sophisticated woman, rubbing shoulders with the country set nearby.

  All the players had been picked up and taken to the training ground, and Lorimer could hear shouts from the field as he parked his car outside a modest-looking building with a wooden sign, ‘Kelvin FC’, painted in black on a white background. He walked towards the field, seeing the lads spread out along the width of the playing area, moving in diagonal steps to warm up their muscles. Beyond them he could see a groundsman who was pulling a roller behind him. It wasn’t Albert Little, his territory began and ended at Kelvin Park. These grounds were rented from the local authority and were maintained by a variety of parks department staff.

  Lorimer strolled in the direction of the football coach, hearing him bark out instructions to his players. Despite the aching heat, every one of them sported a plastic bib over his black T-shirt: this coach didn’t pander to his boys. The game was a serious affair and pre-match training meant taking sides and going through tactical motions as if they were really playing an opposing team. It would be interesting to see just how careful the players were of each other, Lorimer thought. A bad tackle in training could put somebody out of the game for weeks. And footballers were notoriously selfish, chasing these few eager years while they lasted. Members of the Kelvin first team might be paid a small fortune but their glory days wouldn’t last much more than a decade unless they were particularly lucky, or played in goal. The sensible ones invested their big money though a few, like Jason White, squandered it with as much alacrity as the prodigal son.

  He wondered about Nicko Faulkner. The English player had had some good years and would probably have lent a bit of glamour to Kelvin’s team, but would he have delivered the sort of skilful football that had marked him out ten years ago? And had he put away enough for a long retirement? Lorimer recalled the press photos of Janis Faulkner and her husband and wondered if they had enjoyed the champagne lifestyle. It might be interesting to see just what the footballer’s wife had stood to inherit. Though, somehow, he could not bring himself to believe that she was cold-hearted enough to have killed him for his money.

  He was inside the training park now, leaning against a wooden fence, watching as the coach organised the players into two teams. The sound of a lark made him look up and he strained to see the exact point in the blue blue sky where the soaring bird poured out its liquid notes. There it was, a moving speck of darkness fluttering almost out of sight.

  Lorimer wrenched his gaze away from the heavens and looked back at the game beginning on the field. Ally Stevenson was yelling something at one of his defenders who turned to acknowledge the coach. For a while the play moved up and down the field, the ball criss-crossing in arcs between the players until Lorimer realised the nature of this particular game: Stevenson was making them play aerial balls as much as possible, yelling instructions about weight and balance as the players sought to follow his demands. Eventually he called a halt and the players went through a series of stretching exercises before jogging gently round the perimeter of the pitch.

  ‘Keepie-uppie for big boys, eh?’ Lorimer smiled as Stevenson came to join him.

  ‘Aye, well, they think they know it all when they come up to senior level, but there’s always a lot to learn about fitness, stamina …’ The coach broke off, following the players as they ran past. ‘Some of them are naturals, some like to think they are. It’s my job to sort them all out and make them do the job properly. See him?’ Stevenson pointed to the final runner who had jogged past, elbows pumping rhythmically at his sides. Lorimer looked at the footballer, a tall lanky lad. ‘We had to hire a specialist to teach him how to run. He spent all day for weeks doing slaloms in and out of traffic cones. Cost a bloody fortune.’

  ‘And was it worth it?’ Lorimer couldn’t help asking.

  Stevenson shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. He’s certainly changed his gait and he hasn’t lost too many balls in tackles so far, but we’ll wait and see.’ He paused. ‘My money would be on him to come back big-time this season. Reminds me of Peter Crouch: same gangly frame but effective, know what I mean?’

  Lorimer nodded. The English internationalist had shot to fame for outstanding performances in the last world cup, his familiar beanpole figure making headlines all over the world. He could see the physical resemblance, but he wondered if the Kelvin lad had the same star quality.

  ‘Donnie Douglas,’ Lorimer began, moving on to the reason he was standing on the edge of the field.

  ‘Have you found him?’ Stevenson’s eyebrows shot up and the detective saw the hope in the man’s eyes. As he shook his head he felt guilty, seeing the coach’s head turn away in disappointment.

  ‘Sorry. We’re no further forward. Hoped some of your players might have an idea where he could have gone,’ he explained.

  Stevenson’s answer was a deep sigh. He faced the training ground, watching the line of footballers come around to complete their first circuit, then waved a hand to bring them to a halt.

  There was an immediate scramble towards a pile of cooler bags for bottles of water.

  ‘Right, lads, Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer wants to know if you have any idea about where Donnie’s gone to,’ Stevenson barked out in his best sergeant major’s voice.

  ‘Is he no away hame tae Aberdeen, then?’ Baz Thomson’s cheeky grin stood out against the more serious expressions on the faces of the other players. ‘Hus he no got a burd up there, then?’

  ‘Naw. His burd’s down here in Glesca,’ someone else offered.

  ‘An address for her would be helpful,’ Lorimer suggested, his tone bordering on sarcasm, intending to show he wasn’t there to be messed about.

  ‘Ye’ll find it down at the club. He signed her in last match day.’

  ‘Aye, so he did. Shockaroonie!’ Thomson laughed. ‘Donnie falling for groupie number two!’

  Lorimer’s brow creased in puzzlement.

  ‘There’s a wee crowd of lassies follow us around, Chief Inspector,’ Baz explained. ‘We’ve given them numbers, put them in order of …’ he broke off, circling his hands over a pair of huge, imaginary bosoms on his own chest as snorts of laughter erupted behind him.

  ‘Her name and address should be in the vistors’ book, Chief Inspector. Don’t know why we forgot about her.’ Stevenson’s voice was contrite.

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Thanks. But if any of you have the slightest idea where Donnie might have gone, you really must tell me.’ His steely blue gaze took in each one of them in turn, impressing them with the gravity of the situation. Even Baz Thomson, the class clown, fell silent under the weight of that scrutiny.

  ‘D’you think something’s happened to him?’ Andy Sweeney asked, blurting out the question that was in all their minds.

  Lorimer didn’t answer for a moment, letting a sense of unease gather over the players. ‘We don’t know,’ he admitted at last. But in those few seconds of silence he hoped he had sown seeds of real fear within them. If one of them did know Douglas’s whereabouts his conscience might prick him into telling what he knew.

  Alison Renton was the name scrawled in an untidy childish hand with an address that wasn’t a million miles from Kelvin Park. Marie McPhail read out the details to the officer on the other end of the line, wondering why she felt a sudden shiver. The lassie had been a quiet wee thing, she remembered. She’d had a drink with Donnie after the match and they’d gone off tog
ether afterwards. Marie tried to recall her face as she’d stood aside for Donnie to sign her in. The girl had worn black, supporters’ colours maybe, and there had been a proliferation of silver jewellery: bangles jingling around her wrists and several chains sweeping over large breasts. But Alison Renton’s face had not imposed itself upon the receptionist’s memory.

  *

  ‘Alison Renton?’

  The woman who hovered at the half-opened door looked him up and down. ‘Who’s asking?’ she slurred her words slowly, eyes narrowing as if Niall’s manner told her all she needed to know: he was police and she didn’t like that. Her eyes flicked to the man by his side.

  ‘DC Cameron, DC Weir, Strathclyde Police. Are you Miss Renton?’ Niall asked.

  The woman laughed, a short, humourless sneer. ‘Naw, ah’m her mither.’ She pushed back the tangled mop of dyed blonde hair as if in an unconscious wish to become a younger version of herself, then turned away shouting, ‘Al-ison!’ in a voice that had been rendered hoarse by a lifetime of cigarettes. ‘Al-ison, get yer arse doon here, it’s the polis!’

  A thudding of footsteps clattered behind her then the door was drawn open and a teenage girl stood, mouth gaping open at the sight of Cameron and Weir on her doorstep. She’d probably been in bed and had wrapped a grubby pink towelling-robe around her that she was still tying to one side. Her feet were bare and Niall noticed the wee designs she’d painted on every carefully-manicured toenail. The image was curiously at odds with the pale face and long, unkempt hair.

  ‘Alison Renton?’

  ‘Aye,’ the girl answered in a monotone, but her doe-like eyes rimmed with last night’s mascara showed a flicker of curiosity.

  ‘It’s about Donnie Douglas. May we come in?’

  The footballer’s name was an open sesame. Mother and daughter stood back and let the tall Lewisman and his partner stride in.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting visitors. Excuse the state of the place,’ Mrs Renton gabbled as she sought to plump up cushions and hide overfilled ashtrays and an empty vodka bottle, even as she steered them towards a leather sofa in an alarming shade of neon pink. Alison trailed behind her mother, her eyes on Niall, blinking as if she were still half asleep.