ON YER BIKE. The words above the picture of two cyclists racing downhill caught Lorimer’s eye as he entered the hospital foyer. It was the same poster they had pinned up at the public entrance in Greenock HQ. But for some reason he stopped now and read it properly. The race in aid of a cancer charity was to take place in just a couple of weeks and he’d already been asked to sponsor one of their own officers. It was a typical Glaswegian phrase, he thought, grinning to himself; the sort of throwaway line a lassie would give an unwelcome suitor. But somehow its slightly aggressive tone worked in this context of encouraging folk to sign up for the cycle race or at least to sponsor a willing participant. Bikes had never been one of Lorimer’s hobbies, though many of his fellow officers belonged to the police cycling club.
The light-hearted feeling that the poster had engendered disappeared the moment Lorimer set foot inside his mother-in-law’s ward, Maggie’s look of sheer gratitude at seeing him making him hurry to her side.
‘How is she?’ he asked, lowering his voice. Mrs Finlay was asleep, her head turned to one side of the pillow, mouth open and snoring quietly. For a long moment he simply gazed at the woman lying there. She’d become a real pal over the years, although she had been a formidable presence to the young man courting her precious daughter. And Mrs Finlay had given Lorimer plenty of well-intended advice concerning his future. He’d dropped out of university, a move that had not endeared him to his future mum-in-law. But his rapid rise within the police force had mellowed her attitude towards him and they’d developed a special bond. She was proud of her son-in-law and fiercely protective of any criticism that came his way, as it sometimes did in a high-profile case. And she’d been such a rock for them both during the sad trail of failed pregnancies. She’d never be Granny Finlay now, he thought, biting his lip as he watched the rise and fall of her breath.
‘She was asleep when I arrived,’ Maggie whispered. ‘I wanted to wait till you were here to speak to the duty nurse. See how she’s been today. If only I could see her during the day…’ she added wistfully; but they both knew that with Maggie’s full timetable at school that wasn’t going to happen except at weekends.
Letting his wife leave her mother’s bedside, Lorimer shifted closer to the old lady sleeping so peacefully in her hospital bed. Suddenly his thoughts turned to the visitor she’d had the other day, Joseph Alexander Flynn. He’d have to do something for the lad. He’d wanted Lorimer to act as a referee for a job he was applying for. How had that visit gone? he wondered. Flynn was a wee character, right enough. The thought of the youngster made him smile again. Mrs Finlay had taken him under her wing, her own brand of plain talking suiting the street kid. And they’d shared a similar sense of humour, Lorimer thought.
But this was silly, he scolded himself. Why was he thinking of the old lady in the past tense as if she was already lost to them? With a pang, the senior detective realised that this was exactly how it felt. Even if she survived this stroke and its aftermath, Lorimer knew he’d miss the woman she had been. Her usual bustling manner and cheery voice were gone and in their place was this old lady, a shrunken version of the person he’d grown so fond of since he’d first met her. Old age, decay and death: hadn’t he seen them all in his line of work? And shouldn’t he be inured to what was, after all, inevitable?
The bell sounded to signal the end of visiting just as Maggie appeared.
‘She’s still asleep?’ her voice was raw with disappointment. For a moment Maggie seemed to hesitate, then she bent down to drop the gentlest of kisses on her mum’s cheek and drew the cover nearer to her chin, a comforting gesture that a mother might make for her child, Lorimer realised, biting his lip.
He clasped his wife’s hand as they left the ward, neither of them speaking for a moment as the crowds surged towards the bank of lifts.
‘Let’s walk,’ he suggested, heading for the stairs.
Neither of them spoke as they left the hospital and it was only as the Lexus swung out of the main gate that Maggie looked at him. There were unshed tears in her eyes. Lorimer squeezed his wife’s hand in a gesture of solidarity. He understood what she was feeling. Didn’t he have the same hollowness inside? That fear of losing the person who was their only remaining parent.
Later, when he was certain that Maggie was asleep, Lorimer slipped out of bed and crept downstairs to the space that doubled as dining room and study. Despite the information they’d had from the medical staff, he wanted to know a bit more and so for almost an hour the detective trawled the Internet, scrolling down the various sites on the subject of strokes and stroke victims. As he hunched over the small screen of Maggie’s laptop, Lorimer’s mouth tightened. It all made pretty grim reading. And if he was correct in his assessment of his mother-in-law’s condition, the future looked fairly bleak. If her heart were to survive this sudden onslaught, she’d be dependent on other people for the rest of her days. It would change everything for them.
A thought of Colin Ray’s haggard face came to him then. He’d been through it with Grace, hadn’t he? And it was something that so many of his older colleagues had had to endure. Though, if he was honest with himself, the care of a sick or elderly relative usually fell to the woman in a partnership. How would Maggie cope? Could she contemplate giving up her teaching job? Her career was more than just a job, though, he knew. Teaching English was something that defined Maggie Lorimer and to give it up before she’d even reached her fortieth birthday would be a huge blow. Was there some kind of sabbatical she might be able to take? Lorimer sat back suddenly, rubbing a hand across his eyes. What was he thinking of? Making even mental decisions like that for his wife was just not fair. Surely they could afford to hire a professional person of some sort to come in and look after the old lady if she was to be consigned to their care?
He imagined a stranger here in his own home tending to the stroke patient in a wheelchair. They’d need to make loads of changes. Install some sort of a stairlift for a start or add an extension to the downstairs loo. His eyes searched the familiar rooms of his home, seeking practical solutions to the potential problems that could lie ahead. The garden was large and rambling; no problem in adding another room on at the kitchen side and the plumbing was maybe easier there anyway. But how were they to cope with builders about the place at the same time as a sick old lady was living with them? And he couldn’t take time off, not now when he’d been appointed as a review officer to this case in Greenock.
As the practical difficulties threatened to overwhelm him, Lorimer found his fingers tapping the relevant keys to close down the screen. Nobody had told them that Mrs Finlay was being discharged. Maybe she’d be in the Southern General for a good while yet, giving them time to prepare for her coming home to them.
A yawn caught him unawares, making his eyes water. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another demanding day at work and he would simply have to put other thoughts on hold.
As he climbed the stairs, Lorimer paused to look out of the window on the landing. Down on his street some lights were still on. Were some of his neighbours awake, worrying and wondering about their own families? He was no different from any of them, was he? Life threw such things at you and you simply had to cope as best as you could.
Neither of them had spoken about Maggie’s mum before they’d left for work. Instead the radio had filled the silence between them with the morning’s news bulletin and the road report. Only Chancer had miaowed for his breakfast, a familiar yowl that had made them both smile. Animals and small children were immune from the problems of the grown-up world, demanding instead attention to the basics of life. As he’d passed the cat on his way out, Lorimer had bent to stroke the orange fur, experiencing a pang of gratitude as the animal purred loudly and rubbed himself on his trouser leg.
That small incident came to mind as he stood at the entrance of the flats he’d come to visit. A large white cat was regarding him from a downstairs window, a haughty expression in its green eyes. A prized breed no doubt, he thought, noting the fluffy coat and delicate ears. But he’d rather have their Chancer with his doubtful pedigree any day.
Serena Jackson lived not all that far from the burned-out house in Kilmacolm, just a few miles further west, on Greenock’s esplanade. The flats were only a few years old, their raw newness contrasting with the neighbouring rows of fine dark-red sandstone tenements looking across the water. Given the choice, Lorimer would have opted for one of the older properties himself, but these gems rarely came on to the market. Each of these modern flats had a metal balcony facing west and he supposed it must be pleasant to stand up there on a summer’s evening, catching the sun’s last rays.
As he glanced behind him, taking in the sweep of the esplanade and the widening waters of the Clyde, another memory came back to him. Maggie’s parents had been there with them as they’d stood at the railings all those years ago among crowds watching as the flotilla of tall ships had left the harbour, folk waving and cheering as each ship had sailed past them. Lorimer gave a sigh. Next year there would only be Maggie and himself coming back down here to see the Tall Ships, unless they were accompanying a frail old lady in a wheelchair. He blinked, then the image of those crowds and that summer evening was gone. All that he saw was an expanse of choppy water, the hills on the other side partially obscured by a low cloud.
Pressing the buzzer next to the name Jackson, Lorimer turned his thoughts to the young woman who had lost her parents in that blaze. She’d not be able to stand side by side with them watching as the ships left harbour next year, would she? He felt a wave of pity mingled with rage at whoever had committed this senseless act, his resolve to find that person hardening as he heard a female voice utter a quiet hello over the intercom.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he replied, shifting from one foot to the other as he uttered the words. He still wasn’t used to this new title and somehow it didn’t come easily from his lips.
In a matter of minutes Lorimer was standing by a grey-painted door, listening to the rattle of a security chain being drawn back. He frowned. Serena Jackson was expecting his visit, so what was this young woman afraid of? Or was she habitually cautious? Hugh Tannock had told him how hard the daughter had taken her parents’ deaths. Was she a nervy type by nature, perhaps? His first impression of the woman dispelled that notion the moment he saw her.
Lorimer found himself staring into a pair of amber-coloured eyes belonging to a tall, slender female whose light blonde hair was swept into a ponytail. She had the sort of face that one might find on the pages of some glossy magazine, he thought, a perfect face: flawless, luminescent skin with high cheekbones and a wide mouth that was only lightly touched by something cosmetic. She was tall and carried herself like a model; there was no rounded back or slumping shoulders that might indicate an individual weighed down with the burdens of life.
‘Miss Jackson?’ he asked and she gave a slight nod in reply then stepped back, motioning that he should enter the flat. Lorimer muttered ‘Thanks’, as she closed the door, then followed Serena Jackson along a white hallway into a square room that should have looked on to the river. A quick glance showed that the linen blinds were closed, obscuring any sort of view, and he found himself oddly disappointed. Yet it didn’t seem as if the young woman had been unprepared for his visit or had just rolled out of bed. A quick glance showed him that the girl was fully dressed in soft beige slacks and a cream knitted sweater belted at the waist with a heavy dark brown leather belt; expensive clothes whose very simplicity showed their quality.
The woman still had not uttered a word since his arrival and she stood regarding him silently, her face devoid of any expression that he could interpret. His first instinct was to wonder if the girl was still in shock, but then she waved a hand towards a honey-coloured sofa and walked out of the room again. Instead of taking the seat she’d offered, Lorimer followed her and found himself in a kitchen that looked as though it had been lifted straight out of a stand at the Modern Homes Exhibition, all chromes and dove greys with a plethora of gadgets parked at various electrical points upon gleaming worktops. It was immaculate and rather impersonal, he suddenly realised, like the room next door.
‘Oh!’ Serena Jackson spun round, her hand grasping a kettle jug as she heard Lorimer’s footfall.
‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you. May I?’ And taking the kettle out of her unresisting hand, he stepped over to the sink and began to fill the kettle with water. A glance in her direction showed him what he had begun to suspect. Her mouth was half-open in surprise, but the vacant expression gave an indication that it was not shyness that left the woman nothing to say but a mental vagueness. Again he recalled Tannock’s words about the youngest Jackson and that he had given Lorimer the impression that her part in the business seemed to have been more decorative than anything else.
‘Tea or coffee?’ The question came as a surprise as it dawned upon him that these were the first words he’d heard her speak since his arrival. And even her voice had a limpid quality, soft and clear but with a politeness that spoke of good breeding rather than a genuine wish to please this new visitor from Strathclyde Police.
‘Coffee, please. Black, no sugar,’ he added. Lorimer watched as Serena Jackson went about the business of preparing a cafetiere of coffee, spooning three generous measures of Taylor’s finest Arabica into the glass jug. He wasn’t going to be treated to coffee from one of the gadgets, then, he thought. Perhaps a policeman was somewhere further down the pecking order in this wealthy young woman’s life, he wondered, immediately ashamed of himself for such a thought. Wasn’t she making the coffee herself? Yet it was an activity that seemed to wholly engross her to the point where she appeared to be ignoring him. It was a bit odd, though, this lack of small talk and the Detective Superintendent found himself becoming disconcerted by her silence. It was far more usual for someone to prattle on through sheer nervousness during a visit from a senior police officer. And for the moment he couldn’t think of anything to say that would break the tension that he felt building up between them. Has the cat got your tongue? his mother-in-law was used to saying. Well, maybe just at this minute, he admitted and watched the graceful curve of the woman’s back and the way she lifted the kettle jug, her wrist so slim and frail. Was she usually so thin? Or had she suffered physically after the loss of both her parents? It was hardly a question he could ask her right now, was it?
Once the coffee was made, Lorimer gave an encouraging smile and carried the tray back into the lounge. He laid it down on a glass-topped table and sat back, allowing the girl to pour coffee and hand it to him. He watched, fascinated as her long white hands gripped the handle of the coffee pot, the fingernails perfect ovals of pearly pink. Again he had the impression that he was seeing some otherworldly creature, not a flesh-and-blood woman whose parents had been left to die in that dreadful fire.
‘Now, Miss Jackson, I’m afraid I will be asking you quite a lot of questions relating to the death of your parents,’ he told her gently, leaning forward as if to ensure that she understood him. ‘Do you think you can cope with that?’
‘Yes,’ she told him, meeting his blue gaze. ‘I can cope, Superintendent.’ She sat back, her expression both cool and impenetrable. Perhaps that deliberate silence had been a ploy calculated to compose herself or to control her emotions? Lorimer had seen so many different personalities in his professional life. But he had never come across anyone quite like Serena Jackson.
Now she was looking at him over the rim of her coffee cup and he could swear that there was a flicker of intelligence expressed in these topaz-coloured eyes.
‘The family liaison officer has explained to you why I am taking over this case?’
Serena Jackson set her coffee cup down carefully then looked straight at him.
‘It was an accident. That’s what Daniel and I believe. We don’t really see the need for you to come and talk to us all over again,’ she told him, her mouth closing in a firm line as if there was no more to be said on the subject.
Lorimer cleared his throat and swallowed. This was going to be more difficult than he’d expected. But then, what had he expected? A woman ready and eager to discuss her parents’ murder? No.
‘There is some forensic evidence that suggests the fire was started deliberately, Miss Jackson. And we are now looking into the possibility that someone had broken into the house to use an accelerant. It wasn’t just the chip pan, you see.’
‘Acc…?’
‘Some sort of fluid — like petrol — that would instantly combust when set alight. Whoever did that knew perfectly well that the blaze would begin in minutes and that anyone inside didn’t stand a chance of escaping.’ He heard his own words sounding brutal, but there was no easy way to explain the truth. Besides, she needed to understand why he was here.
‘It wasn’t an accident that someone spilled it, then?’ She was looking down at her hands now, clasping and unclasping them in a gesture that he recognised as anxiety. If Serena Jackson and her brother had been convincing themselves that this had been a tragic accident, then what he was telling her was like opening a horrible wound that had only just begun to heal.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘It seems not. That’s why I have to ask you questions about your late father and mother.’
She looked up at him again then, as though she were unable to meet his eyes, she turned away with a sigh.
‘We have to know from those who were closest to them if there was any reason for their deaths,’ he continued, hoping that she was hearing what he said.
‘My parents were very ordinary people, you know,’ Serena began, her eyes fixed on something in the middle distance, making him wonder if she was reliving some memory of them. ‘She played golf every other day, went to the local art class every week. The sort of thing that loads of Kilmacolm ladies do. None of her friends ever said anything bad about her, as far as I know.’ She tailed off.
‘And you father?’ Lorimer’s interjection was dropped quietly into the ensuing silence, encouraging her to continue.
‘Just the same, I suppose. He worked at the office, took business trips, played golf. All the same stuff as everyone else’s father did around here. Well, I mean, up there.’ She made a face as she realised her mistake. ‘I suppose I’m still not used to being away from home.’
‘You moved here very recently then?’
‘Yes. I got the keys the week before…’ She tailed off again and this time Lorimer did not press her.
It struck him as a trifle odd, though. Serena Jackson was an independent young woman in her mid-twenties and yet had only just left the parental home. Perhaps that explained why everything here looked so new and shiny; things were only just out of their boxes and with the advent of her parents’ deaths she would hardly have had the energy to personalise her own space. Taking a quick glance around confirmed his thoughts; there was not even a single photograph on display — nothing to remind her of her mum and dad, only such memories as she had locked up in her head.
Something told Lorimer that he was not going to get anything else useful from the girl. She seemed to have faded into another silence that left him feeling like an outsider. And yet he couldn’t let himself leave it like that.
‘Are you intending to return to work?’ he asked.
The rise of one shoulder signalled what? Indifference? Uncertainty?
‘You don’t mind living here on your own?’
The eyes Serena turned upon him were at once large and vacant as if something had taken away her innermost spirit and Lorimer wondered if she were even taking in these simple questions.
‘Do you miss them?’ he asked softly, leaning forward so there could be no chance of her missing his words.
For a moment she didn’t move, then he saw the slight nod of her head and the way she bit her lip as if to stop herself from weeping.
‘Would you excuse me?’ she asked and rose suddenly, crossing the room in a couple of strides and disappearing into the hall. He heard the hollow sound of a door closing and guessed she had gone to the bathroom rather than show any sign of grief in front of a stranger.
Lorimer looked around the room, trying to see anything that would give him more of a clue about this young woman and the sort of life she was now living, but there seemed to be no personal things at all, not even a magazine in the metal rack beside the coffee table. But he did recognise something there. The turquoise cover of a square-shaped folder caught his attention. He bent down and picked it up, reading the familiar words on the front cover: Information for Bereaved Families and Friends Following Murder or Culpable Homicide. So, she had already been given this by Family Liaison. Why, then, was she insisting that it was an accident? A refusal to acknowledge something more dreadful, he supposed. He’d come across denial like that before, he thought, flicking open the folder until he came to the section headed Important Contacts. There, against the box for the name of the SIO was the name Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray. But it had been scored out with a single line and beneath it a different hand had written Mr William Lorimer. There was no change in the postal address or telephone number of the HQ at Greenock, though. Lorimer frowned for a moment. He was not being dignified by any title other than plain Mister. Then he shrugged. Maybe there simply wasn’t enough space under the original name.
Hearing the sound of a toilet being flushed, Lorimer put the folder back where he had found it and stood up ready to take his leave.
Serena Jackson didn’t seem surprised to see him standing waiting for her.
‘Thanks for seeing me this morning. And for the coffee,’ he added.
She gave a sight nod and headed for the front door at the far end of the hall, opening it wide as if to ensure that he really was leaving. Then, before he could say goodbye, she caught his sleeve, making him turn to face her.
‘Do you like being a policeman?’ she asked, her tawny eyes wide, like that of a curious child.
‘Not always,’ he replied. ‘But it’s a good job most of the time.’ Then, as she let go of his coat sleeve, he smiled at her. ‘Take care,’ he told her, nodding as she stepped back into the sanctuary of her new home. Then the door closed and he heard again that rattle of metal against wood as she secured the safety chain.
Once out in the open air, Lorimer drew a deep breath. That had been less than pleasant, but then what had he expected? Hopefully his visit to the older brother would produce a bit more in the way of information. All that he had found here was that the Jacksons’ daughter was a strange creature, one that, for all his experience, he simply couldn’t fathom. For a moment he felt a certain pity for the girl; she seemed incomplete despite her undeniable beauty. But wasn’t there something odd about such perfection? Then Lorimer caught himself wondering what she would look like if she had given him a smile. And for a moment he wished that she had.
‘I wish you’d told me you wanted to see Serena, Superintendent. I’d have made the effort to be there with her,’ Daniel Jackson told him.
They were sitting in an airy room overlooking one of the city’s dear green places in a quiet corner of the West End. It was only a mile or so from the comprehensive school where Maggie taught but it might have been in a completely different world. That was one thing his friend Solly Brightman was fond of telling him: how Glasgow was full of contrasts, those who had and those who had not rubbing shoulders with apparent ease.
Daniel Jackson’s home was one of the most gracious houses that Lorimer had ever visited, though he had been inside all sorts of Glasgow properties during his career. On either side of the bay windows were twin pillars made of tawny marble, half hidden by thin, gauzy draperies drawn beside them. The high ceilings still had all of their original cornicing, a feature that someone had picked out in a pale shade of gold in the elegant sitting room. Some nineteenth-century merchant with pots of money at his disposal, Lorimer thought as he took in the pleasing proportions of this room. And now another wealthy young man had taken over the care of the house, lavishing his own attention upon it. It was the sort of period home that would have been ruined by anyone trying to impose a modern style upon it and the policeman’s artistic sensibilities were gratified by seeing that so many of the furnishings were in keeping with the age of the house. No doubt Daniel Jackson would have the same up-to-date quality of kitchen as his sister had in her new-build flat by the river, but here, in this sitting room, there was every sign that the owner was in sympathy with his surroundings. Though right at this moment he seemed distinctly out if sympathy with the tall policeman sitting opposite.
‘It’s only usual to have a family member present when interviewing a minor,’ Lorimer told him, meeting the young man’s gaze. Daniel Jackson gave a sigh and turned away as if to gather his thoughts. Then he looked back at Lorimer, his brown eyes soft with a sadness that made the policeman immediately warm to the man.
‘I’m a bit protective of my little sister, Superintendent. She’s not like other young women you may have met. Don’t get me wrong,’ he waved his hand as though to banish any wrongheaded ideas, ‘she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself and all that. It’s just.. ’ He tailed off, as though seeking the correct words. ‘Serena’s always needed a bit more care than me. She had a hard time at school till they found she was dyslexic. And by that time she’d missed such a lot. Anyway, she’s been really badly affected by all of this and one can only admire her for staying put in her own place.’
‘What was her alternative?’ Lorimer asked. After all, hadn’t the family home been practically razed to the ground?
‘Well, moving in with me, of course. It’s plenty big enough for both of us. In fact, I keep one of the bedrooms just for Serena.’
‘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 legend.
‘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.