Rhoda Martin slammed her locker shut. Things weren’t the same now that this Detective Superintendent had invaded their territory. By rights she should have been called up for promotion by now, particularly since Colin Ray’s abrupt retirement from the Force. And Katie Clark’s link with the tall officer who’d given her that gimlet stare was even more annoying. She’d hoped to have Lorimer more to herself, to be able to talk to him about the shambles of the case and how the way forward could be, as she saw it. Damn it, she’d spent hours of her own time making notes about how a review might be organised. But did he want her opinion? Did he hell! She was stuck with being allocator and working with all the actions from other folks’ statements and the forensic reports, such as they were. And hadn’t she tried her best to make sure this case was closed? Couldn’t they all just leave it alone? She’d known the Jacksons, she’d told Lorimer eventually. Serena and Daniel were people she’d grown up with. Okay, so she hadn’t mentioned any of that to DCI Ray. So what? Serena was her friend, she told herself. Rhoda didn’t want to upset her, did she? But had giving him that snippet of information made any difference to this cop from Glasgow?
The DI smoothed down an invisible crease on her dark skirt, shrugged on her jacket and turned to examine herself in the mirror. What she saw must have pleased her because a sudden smile appeared, transforming the discontented expression into a very attractive face. Her blonde hair was newly washed and straightened and she took it up in two handfuls, experimenting whether or not to pile it into a clip at the back of her head. Serena had looked good like that in magazine pictures. Rhoda let it go instead, watching as it tumbled around her shoulders. She had put on makeup before leaving home, carefully applying foundation and blusher to bring out her slanting cheekbones. Her green eyes were enhanced by smoky shadow and layers of waterproof mascara and now she rummaged in her bag for the little pot of lip gloss that always seemed to lose itself in the deepest corners.
Satisfied, Rhoda snapped the bag shut and gave her reflection a grin. Maybe it was time to let Detective Superintendent Lorimer know who really counted around here. They hadn’t really got off on the right foot, had they? He seemed to be one cool guy, but she hadn’t yet met any officer who was totally immune to her charms, should she choose to turn them on.
‘Jackson Tannock Technology Systems. What do we know about them?’ Lorimer asked. The faces of his team regarded him with some interest as he looked at them one by one. Young Dodgson seemed more at ease now and the older DS, Robert Wainwright, had put a hand to his chin as if seriously considering an answer to this question. But it was DI Martin who gave the first response.
‘One of the biggest employers in the area,’ she began, a smile on her face that made Lorimer look at her a second time. Had she changed her appearance today? Something was different, but he was at a loss to see just what that was. Or was it that softer quality in her voice? Narrowing his eyes, Lorimer gave the woman a little nod of encouragement.
‘Hugh Tannock is the whiz-kid of the outfit,’ Martin went on. ‘Jackson had the money and together they founded the company about five years ago. Floated it on the stock exchange and somehow managed to weather the credit crunch. There were some redundancies but nothing too dramatic.’
‘Nobody so pissed off that they’d harbour a grudge for that length of time and set fire to Jackson’s home,’ Wainwright added.
‘And no malcontents within the firm more recently?’ Lorimer asked.
His question was met by an uncomfortable silence.
‘Not something that seems to have been a part of the initial investigation, then?’ he added, knowing that the question was simply rhetorical. ‘Well, that’s an area I believe to be worth examining, ’ he told them, once more attempting to keep any trace of criticism from his voice.
‘Absolutely, sir.’ DI Martin was looking his way, her face quite serious. Her head was tilted to one side as if listening to Lorimer was the most important thing in her life. For some reason it only made him distrust her more, and he experienced a moment of annoyance at himself for this irrational thought.
‘Forensics suggest that the fire was started in the kitchen area: a burning chip pan. But there were traces of accelerant closer to the main entrance outside the house and so the case was then believed to be one of wilful fire-raising. Okay so far?’
The faces concentrated on the DCI’s all nodded in agreement.
‘Thanks to Constable Dodgson we may have a new piece of evidence. He has kept fumes from a site close to the main source of the fire and these are now being tested. If we find a different type of accelerant from the one already identified, then perhaps this investigation will take a new and interesting turn. You all follow what I’m saying? The source of this accelerant would also suggest that whoever began the fire had some way of gaining entry into the house itself. Late at night.’
‘Are you saying this was a burglary gone wrong?’ Katie Clark asked, her face screwed up in puzzlement.
‘Course not,’ DI Martin immediately retorted. ‘It was definitely a case of wilful fire-raising!’ Then, perhaps realising that she’d sounded somewhat disdainful, she turned a sweet smile towards Lorimer. ‘That’s right, sir, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘There’s no question in anyone’s mind: that fire was started deliberately. The fire officers’ and forensic boys’ reports show specific patterns around the windows in both the kitchen and upper bedroom where the fire was seeking oxygen, so we have some evidence that there were two points of origin. What we have to find is not only how it was begun but why anybody would want to carry out a savage attack like that. We don’t always begin with motive in an investigation, as you all know. But here we should look at anybody who had a reason to hold a grudge against Sir Ian Jackson. Or,’ he added, more quietly, glancing at them all to see their reaction, ‘his wife.’
He let the murmurs break out among them for a few moments at this suggestion. Investigating Lady Jackson’s background was something that had never occurred to Colin Ray or any one of the original team. But Lorimer was used to looking at cases from unusual angles. And here, with a case to review, he’d turn the damn thing upside down and inside out to see what he could find.
‘The business aspect is the most obvious, I’ll grant you,’ he continued. ‘But what needs to be done is a thorough examination of every bit of the Jacksons’ personal lives.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The file on their background is sadly lacking in content. Perhaps I could have someone volunteer to cover the initial administration of that?’
‘I’ll do that, sir.’ Kate Clark’s hand was up and he had the instant impression of a chubby schoolgirl trying to please her teacher. But she was nobody’s fool and this action would probably suit the pregnant woman better than a lot of slogging around the district. And her colleagues would surely realise this as her motivation, Lorimer thought, though he did not fail to see the flash of irritation crossing DI Martin’s pretty face.
‘Thanks, DC Clark. And someone else to take over any out-of-office work?’
DS Wainwright raised a hand in his direction.
‘Right. And we’ll need someone to go over the fire service’s reports again.’ He saw another hand raised and nodded his acceptance.
‘I’m going to see Hugh Tannock myself,’ he told them. ‘Apart from anything else, I think he has the right to know that the case is being reviewed.’ And, he might have added, it would be interesting to see just how the death of Jackson had affected the man. He had lost the co-founder of their business, after all and nobody from the original investigation had noted the man’s reaction in any of the reports.
Jackson Tannock Technologies was situated high above the town, overlooking the sweep of Greenock harbour and the rows of houses that hugged the hillside. As he drove the Lexus up the increasingly steep gradient, Lorimer saw a familiar landmark jutting out of the earth; the Free French Cross, a symbol from World War Two. He hesitated for only a fraction then swung the big car across the road into the parking area and got out.
It was a view that never failed to impress, even on this grey, murky day. Images of the celebrated landmark upon calendars and tourist guides would always show the stark white cross of Lorraine, its stem firmly rooted into an anchor, against improbably blue waters and a cloudless sky. But even today the monument towering over that grand expanse could move him. Slate-grey clouds lowered right down to the horizon’s rim, obscuring the hills of Tighnabruaich and beyond, but below him Lorimer could see MacBrayne’s car ferry ploughing over the waters like a wee toy boat. Few other craft had sought the sheltering arms of the harbour and from this distance the fluorescent marker buoys resembled a handful of orange confetti scattered over the surface of the water.
Up here it was quiet, almost lonely, reminding Lorimer what it might have been like to have stood on the bridge of one of these French boats sailing through banks of mist and out into the dangerous waters of the Atlantic. And it was here, at the tail of the bank, that other huge liners had turned from the river to head out to sea, their destination often the great port of New York.
He turned away from the view and examined the inscriptions on the monument. To the roadside, the words proclaimed:
‘This memorial was designed and erected by the officers and men of the French naval base at Greenock with the help of subscriptions raised among the crews of the Free French naval forces.’
Many had gone out into the grey ocean never to return; their sacrifice at the Battle of the Atlantic had been remembered here ever since. But it was not just the memory of sailors lost in the battle that this cross represented. Walking back to the seaward side, Lorimer read the French inscription etched into the rock surface.
A La memoire du capitaine de frigate Biaison des officeurs et de l’equipage du sous-marin ‘Surcoup’ perdu dans l’Atlantique
Fevrier
He thought of the captain and officers of the frigate, Biaison, lost in the Atlantic that February then grimaced. What unimaginable horror had the submarine’s crew endured in that claustrophobic tube as the Surcoup plummeted to the depths of the ocean?
Turning back to look out across the expanse of land that lay between hill and seashore, Lorimer noticed the winter grasses struggling for survival against swathes of rusting bracken. It was cold up here, making him rub his hands together, despite the wind having dropped. The ground seemed gripped still by the iron fist of winter. Letting his gaze wander, Lorimer spied a gorse bush clinging to the edge of the cliff, its few sulphur yellow flowers a defiant reminder that life still continued in every season. And there was life everywhere, from the flat-roofed secondary school on a plateau to his left to the rank upon rank of houses marching down towards the shore, bungalows up here giving way to grey tenements down in the heart of the town. Below him lay the curve of Battery Park, its bright red swings and roundabouts deserted.
It was time to go. Hugh Tannock was expecting him. Yet paying homage here for those few minutes made the Detective Superintendent feel a certain stirring in his blood. There had been sacrifices made by brave men. And somehow the thought of their unswerving duty gave him strength.
Jackson Tannock Technologies lay hidden from prying eyes in a hollow of land near Lyle Hill, its buildings screened behind a plantation of pine and birch trees. If the architect had designed the offices to impress a newcomer then he had succeeded. The white curving walls were an obvious imitation of a ship, the lines to one side forming a bow. Above the main entrance were banks of glass windows evoking the impression of decks on an ocean-going liner. And if the beholder was still uncertain of the visual metaphor, a line of red tiles drew the eye upwards to the scarlet chimney masquerading as a funnel. This building, he had read somewhere, was a homage to the Art Deco buildings of a century before.
The whole thing might have appeared absurd, but it didn’t. Instead it showed the sort of graceful elegance that comes with good design, and that sense of solid permanence — was that meant to evoke a subliminal notion of trustworthiness and integrity? Was it Lorimer’s early training as an art historian that made him see such things so dispassionately? he wondered. Or had the years of policing turned him into a hard-bitten cynic, refusing to accept the message that this building and its creators were trying to convey?
Tannock had been expecting him but Lorimer hadn’t thought the man himself would come to meet him in reception. Looking upwards at an open-plan staircase, he saw a man hurrying down, holding the ends of his jacket around him as if self-conscious of that corpulent figure.
‘Hugh Tannock. Good to meet you, Superintendent.’
Lorimer felt a firm hand in his and saw that Tannock was looking up at him with an expression that was at once warm and curious. There was something about this short, middle-aged fellow that Lorimer immediately liked. He had no difficulty holding the Detective Superintendent’s gaze and the smile on that face made his eyes crinkle up at the corners, giving him the look of a benign and friendly priest. For a second Lorimer had a vision of Tannock clad in a brown habit, a simple cord tied around his rotund frame.
‘Let’s go upstairs, shall we?’ Tannock suggested, already ushering Lorimer back to the pine and steel structure that spiralled upwards. ‘I always like to show off the view from the top,’ he twinkled, as if confiding some secret to the tall policeman.
The room they entered had one wall completely made of glass, from which Lorimer could see the same view that he had so recently enjoyed from the Free French Cross.
‘Not the sort of thing one can fail to boast about, is it?’ Tannock sighed, rubbing his chubby hands as he stood looking over the expanse of hillside and water, glancing back at Lorimer to see what effect the magnificent vista might have on the policeman.
‘Must keep folk off their work,’ he murmured, giving the man a small courteous smile, but hoping to remind him that he, at any rate, was here on official business.
‘Or inspire them?’ Tannock suggested. ‘Shall we have some coffee while we talk about poor Ian, Superintendent?’
The man’s sudden change of subject showed he had judged the Detective Superintendent’s mood to perfection. He was no fool, whatever else he was, thought Lorimer, adding respect to that instinctive liking for the man.
Directing them to a pair of cream-coloured sofas placed so that they could look out over the river, Tannock waited a moment until his visitor was seated then pulled out a BlackBerry from his inside pocket.
‘We’re ready for coffee now, Mattie, thanks,’ he said then turned to Lorimer, ‘Unless you’d prefer tea?’
Lorimer assured him that coffee would be fine then watched as Tannock pulled his trouser legs up a little to prevent them from creasing, before sinking back into the squashy sofa opposite. It was a gesture at once old-fashioned and effete and made Lorimer suddenly recall the men from the war years who had been tutored in those same small, decorous habits.
‘You explained on the telephone that you wanted to talk to me about Ian’s death, Superintendent,’ Tannock began. ‘Has anything new come to light?’
His enquiry was at once grave and hopeful, Lorimer thought.
‘The previous Senior Investigating Officer in charge has retired, sir, and I have been asked to review the case.’
Tannock frowned. ‘Review? Doesn’t that suggest some degree of inefficiency on the part of this officer and his team?’
‘Not necessarily, Mr Tannock,’ Lorimer replied, crossing one leg over the other. But he was saved from giving any further detail by the appearance of an elderly woman bearing a tray of coffee and cakes.
‘There you are, gentlemen. Shall I leave you to pour, Mr Tannock?’ the woman asked, straightening up and obviously anxious to take her leave. Was she uncomfortable in the presence of the police? Lorimer wondered. It didn’t have to be a sign of a guilty conscience, simply an aversion to the sort of seriousness that warranted his presence there.
‘No, thank you, Mattie. That’s fine,’ Tannock assured her.
‘So what do you make of the whole sorry business, Superintendent?’ Tannock continued once the woman had left them.
‘I haven’t had time as yet to evaluate all that the primary reports showed, sir. But I would be grateful for anything you could tell me about the business here and Sir Ian’s involvement in it.’
Tannock leaned forward to set his cup down before replying.
‘Sir Ian was my business partner. We owned Jackson Tannock Technologies between us.’
‘And now?’
‘Ian and Pauline’s shares will be passed on to his son and daughter, naturally. Between them they now hold over thirty percent of the share capital.’ Tannock paused. ‘It will be worth in excess of eight hundred million, I should think. Euros, that is. We always deal in euros nowadays for our market investors.’
Lorimer swallowed a gulp of hot coffee, trying not to splurt it out in astonishment. Eight hundred million euros. The figure had been spoken as if it were nothing out of the ordinary in a climate of worldwide recession. If he’d been looking for motive in any shape or form, surely he had found it here?
‘What’, he paused, the catch in his throat making speech impossible till he swallowed once more, ‘what will they do with that kind of money?’
Tannock smiled. ‘Daniel is one of our younger directors here. He’s actually in charge of Human Resources, so I believe he will simply leave his money in the firm. For now at any rate,’ he added, nodding in a way that reminded Lorimer of a wise elderly owl.
‘He’s thinking of leaving the firm?’ Lorimer asked.
Tannock smiled thinly. ‘Not if he realises his original ambition, Superintendent.’
‘And that is?’
‘To take over from Sir Ian, of course. It was something that Daniel had tried to have agreed by both his father and me. That he would inherit Sir Ian’s place on the Board whenever retirement came.’
There was something in Tannock’s expression. Scepticism? Was he trying to say that the younger Jackson was greedy for that sort of corporate power?
Tannock was shaking his head. ‘Ian would never have retired. It wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘He couldn’t abide the thought of endless days of golf. No matter how much he enjoyed the odd game. Liked the cut and thrust of business too much.’
‘So Daniel had no hope of becoming heir to his father’s position unless he died?’
Hugh Tannock paled at the implication of Lorimer’s words. ‘That’s not what I meant, Superintendent. There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy ambition and his father respected Daniel’s views. Please don’t think along such lines…’ he broke off, squirming in distaste, the idea of patricide quite repugnant to him.
‘And the daughter?’
‘Ah, Serena.’ Tannock’s smile slipped a little. ‘She’s taken this very hard, I’m afraid. Very hard indeed. Quiet lass at the best of times, you know, but these days she’s…’ he stopped then glanced at the Super as if he’d said too much already. ‘Well, let’s just say that a sudden loss like this is extremely difficult to cope with. She’s not been back at work since the fire.’
‘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 manner.
‘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.
‘I was at school with the two Jackson children,’ she told him. ‘I know Serena quite well and,’ she hesitated, ‘let’s just say that we all moved in the same social circles.’
Lorimer gave a brief nod. DI Martin’s background might prove relevant; then again, it might not. ‘What’s your point, Detective Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Well.’ The woman seemed at a sudden loss for words and Lorimer could see her thinking fast. She’d tried to come on to him and singularly failed. Now she was dreaming up a real excuse for sailing uninvited into his room.
‘I suppose I wanted to let you know that I could be of help,’ she said lamely, her cheeks suddenly pink with what might have been embarrassment or even anger.
‘There’s no mention of this in any previous report,’ Lorimer told her coldly. ‘Perhaps if you had seen fit to offer help to your previous SIO then he might have been grateful for some inside knowledge.’
There was no mistaking the rage in the woman’s expression now as she began to rise. ‘Well…’ she began, but Lorimer did not allow her to finish.
‘Put the chair back where you found it, if you don’t mind,’ he said, in a voice devoid of any expression whatsoever then, indicating the door, he looked back at the file in front of him.
There was no sound of the door slamming behind her as she left and Lorimer gave a wry smile: at least DI Martin was capable of some self-control. But his smile disappeared at once as he realised that the gulf between him and this officer would only have widened. The little incident might have been fuel for a good story in the pub from any other officer. But Lorimer didn’t need the sort of macho boasting that sometimes went on among his male colleagues.
He let out a sigh, relieved to remember that he was only down here in Greenock for a limited time. Any awkwardness would have to be endured. Or simply ignored.
Rhoda Martin looked at herself in the mirror, hands gripping the edge of the basin. Errant tears coursed down her cheeks and she rubbed furiously with a paper hanky, smudging the carefully-applied mascara. Her green eyes narrowed into malevolent slits.
‘Damn you to hell, Lorimer,’ she muttered, throwing the tissue accurately into the waste basket. ‘I’ll get you for this,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Then you’ll wish you’d never been born.’