The golf club in Kilmacolm was situated at the end of a winding road, high above the village, tucked tidily away from any passing traffic. Lorimer had driven up from Greenock with more hope than expectation that he might come across some background information relating to Sir Ian and Lady Jackson. His first instinct had been to revisit the burnt out mansion house and for a while he had wandered around the area, seeking something that might spark off an idea. Kate’s call had come as he had just arrived back at the car and for a moment he had been tempted to turn around and head back to Greenock. If DI Martin wanted him to sit in on an interview with McGroary then surely she would be the one to call him, Lorimer told himself. And there was no way he’d want to cause Kate Clark any trouble for calling him with the news. So, as the afternoon light faded from a sky that was threatening snow, Lorimer kept to his original plan and headed towards the golf club. If this had been the place they’d come for recreation then, he reasoned, perhaps somebody here could paint personal colour and detail into what was a very sketchy outline of the famous philanthropist and his socialite wife.
The clubhouse was more like a country cottage from a bygone age, its creamy walls and low roof set against acres of neatly clipped grass. Lorimer parked the car and walked towards the entrance at the side, then pressed the bell. A call to the golf club secretary had been made, the man had apologised, he would be unable to see Detective Superintendent Lorimer this evening. Nonethless, he had decided to call in. From past experience he knew that an unexpected visit could produce more than one where answers had been carefully prepared. And surely there would be somebody here who could tell him things about the Jacksons? He stood for a moment, waiting to be admitted, then turned to look out at the buildings beyond the car park. A modern bungalow lay back from the main drive and, to its left, a collection of huts painted dark green that might belong to the resident groundsman. Trees surrounded much of the perimeter, one narrow path snaking behind them into thicker woodland.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ The drawling tone made Lorimer spin around to see a tall, angular-looking woman of indeterminate age dressed in matching heather-coloured Argyll-check sweater and slacks. She was, Lorimer decided, almost a caricature of the lady golfer. But there was nothing superficial about the steely gaze she had turned upon this visitor to Kilmacolm Golf Club.
‘DCI Lorimer,’ he said, producing his warrant card that still bore that rank. Explaining his designation as an acting Superintendent just wasn’t worth the hassle.
‘Monica Hutcheson,’ the lady golfer offered with a nod, eyeing his card with a suspicious look. Yet she stood aside to let him enter, holding the door then closing it firmly behind him.
She did not extend her hand, Lorimer noticed. After all, he reminded himself, Isherwood was probably a member here as well. Perhaps a visit from a mere DCI was simply not enough to merit that.
‘I’m investigating the death of two of your former members, Sir Ian and Lady Pauline,’ he continued, watching the woman’s carefully pencilled eyebrows rise as he mentioned the Jacksons’ names.
‘Gracious,’ the woman murmured. ‘What a horrible thing that was,’ she added as if it were a gross breach of manners to say more.
‘I was hoping’, Lorimer went on, ‘to speak to some of their friends.’
‘Whatever for? Haven’t we all been upset enough?’ The woman’s outrage was palpable. But before Monica Hutcheson could continue, a door behind the main reception desk opened and a short, grey-haired woman emerged.
‘Oh, Mrs H. Sorry, didn’t know you had company,’ the woman began in an accent that Lorimer recognised as pure Glaswegian.
‘Betty.’ Monica Hutcheson’s mouth curved in a wide smile that failed to reach her eyes. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking DCI Lorimer into the lounge. I’m sure you can fill him in with anything he wants to ask about the Jacksons.’ And with that she sketched a tiny wave and headed towards the ladies’ locker room.
Lorimer glanced around him, noting a darkened room to one side and the doors leading off this reception area. A board directly ahead of him bore the words KILMACOLM GOLF CLUB WELCOMES… but who or what was welcomed had been left blank. It certainly didn’t feel as if it was DCI William Lorimer.
The woman called Betty stood where she was, her bird-like head to one side. ‘You’re Lorimer?’ she asked, crinkling up her eyes as if she had seen him before somewhere. ‘Like the same wan that found they wee lassies in the woods last summer?’
‘I…’ Lorimer began but before he could say another word, Betty had caught him by the arm and was leading him to the door from where she had emerged.
‘Sadie Dunlop. Yer canteen lady. She’s my late man’s cousin. Ah get a’ the talk frae Sadie,’ Betty confided. ‘An’ I can tell ye, she thinks a lot of you, Mister Lorimer.’
‘Ah, Sadie.’
‘See ah’m the main cleaner in here but ah get tae do a bit of this and that. Waitressing an’ other things. A’body knows wee Betty MacPherson.’ She grinned and jabbed a surprisingly sharp elbow into Lorimer’s arm.
‘D’ye want a cup o’ tea? Mikey the chef jist made some scones. They’re still hoat.’ Another jab from Betty’s elbow came before Lorimer could dodge.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he replied, somewhat bemused by the little woman’s flow of conversation.
‘An’ I tell ye,’ Betty leaned towards him conspiratorially, ‘there’s naebody kens a’ the toffs in here like I do.’ She nodded as though to confirm her words. ‘So jist ye ask away aboot that pair. Noo, sit doon here and ah’ll fetch yer tea. Milk and sugar?’
Lorimer was relieved to see that there were few other people in the main lounge. One older man was ensconced in the Times and a couple of white-haired matrons were sipping tea at a table in the corner. The seat Betty MacPherson had selected was well out of earshot from anyone else in the room. Despite that, she dropped Lorimer a wink and motioned for him to follow her out of the lounge and into a smaller room next door.
‘This is the family room. Naebody’ll bother us in here,’ she told him. ‘There, ye came in jist at the right time, so ye did,’ Betty exclaimed, setting down a laden tea tray on a well-polished table, beside a pair of dark leather settees. ‘I wis jist gettin’ ready for the off.’
Glancing at his watch, he could see that it was approaching six o’clock. It was doubtful now whether he’d manage to join Maggie in time for visiting hour. Outside the sky was darkening but there was still enough light to see the misty outline of hills, the putting greens and the starter’s hut at the first tee.
As Betty poured from a silver teapot, Lorimer glanced around him. It was a pleasant little room with watercolours on the walls of what must be different vistas of the golf course. A television was set on a shelf at an angle in the corner opposite them. Had the Jacksons spent time in this room, sitting perhaps in this very spot, watching golfing events like the US Masters?
‘There’s yer tea. Now eat up, Mikey’s scones are rare.’
‘Thanks, Betty.’ Lorimer smiled at the woman, suddenly grateful for her obvious attempts to make a fuss of him. ‘You said you were related to our Sadie. Do you see her often?’ Lorimer asked. It was always a good idea to initiate a conversation that prepared some common ground and for a minute or two he listened to an account of Betty’s family and how the woman had moved away from her Glasgow home to be near her daughter after her husband’s death. He had waited for that particular turn in the conversation, knowing it would arrive, and as Betty put on a suitable sorrowful face at the mention of Mr MacPherson, deceased, Lorimer interrupted the flow of her narrative.
‘Sir Ian and Lady Pauline. You knew them well, Betty?’
‘Oh, aye. There’s not a one in here that wee Betty disnae know,’ she crowed, lifting up her teacup and giving Lorimer the merest wink.
‘So you would know who their friends were and what sort of family the Jacksons were?’
The older woman regarded Lorimer thoughtfully then set down her teacup with a little sigh. ‘Aye, there’s not much that passes me by in this place. Why d’you think Mrs Hutcheson was so ready to pass you on to the wee cleaning lady?’ She smiled as though she had made some sort of joke.
‘And you’ll know all the gossip as well?’ Lorimer grinned back, encouragingly.
‘It doesnae do tae speak ill of the dead,’ Betty told him sternly, her expression immediately serious.
‘I’m not asking you to do that, Betty,’ Lorimer said quietly. ‘But if I’m ever to find out what happened that night of the fire I need to know as much as possible about the Jacksons.’ He looked straight into her grey eyes, holding her in his gaze. ‘What did they do? Who were their friends? Was there any earthly reason for someone to set fire to that house?’
‘Och, there’ve been fires here afore noo. I mind a spate o’ burned oot motors years back. An’ then there wis that caravan. Terrible thing. See,’ she nudged Lorimer with her elbow once more, ‘some vandals set this caravan alight. It wis thon gas canister thing, ye know. The neighbours had tae get the family oot. An’ a baby an’ all. In a room right next tae where the caravan wis at the side of the driveway. I mind that yin well. Oor lassie lives roon the corner frae the hoose.’
‘The Jacksons,’ Lorimer reminded the woman. ‘What can you tell me about them?’
The sigh that Betty MacPherson gave now seemed to come from the depths of her soul. With a shake of her head she looked away from Lorimer and out of the window as if to see something in her mind’s eye. ‘Och, I suppose it won’t do any harm to them now to tell you. Dead is dead, after all.’ She reached down for her cup and drained the last of the tea before continuing. ‘Pauline wasn’t as well thought of as folk make out. Nice lady and all as she was — and she was aye polite tae me — there were quite a few in here’ — she jerked her thumb in the direction of the people in the next room — ‘that didnae approve of her relationship. ’
Betty leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘She wis seein’ a bit too much of thon fella frae the works. That wis what they all said. Know whit I mean? I cannae say masel if she wis actually.. well, you know… but it was all the talk around the village.’
‘What fellow?’
‘The wee man, Tannock. Sir Ian’s partner. They were havin’ an affair, so it wis said.’
Lorimer frowned. Surely that was malicious gossip? Somehow he couldn’t imagine Hugh Tannock and his partner’s wife… Then a sudden memory came back to him of the man’s display of grief during Lorimer’s visit. Had it been the mention of Pauline Jackson that had sparked off the man’s emotion?
‘You don’t believe me? Aye, well, I can see why. They were nae whit ye wid call a braw match. Her bein’ that nice looking and him a richt wee bachle o’ a man. But it’s whit’s in yer hert that counts, isn’t it?’ Betty’s bright bird-like eyes caught his own and for a moment he sensed the woman’s underlying sympathy. ‘Well, doesnae matter now, does it?’ she continued, setting down her teacup. ‘And that wee man wouldn’t have wanted tae hurt Lady Pauline, I can promise ye that, Mr Lorimer,’ Betty insisted.
‘Did Sir Ian know about this?’
‘Well if he didn’t then he must have been blind and deaf. But then, they do say the spouse is always the last tae know, don’t they?’
‘What about the Jackson children?’
‘Och, they wouldnae know whit wis goin’ on. Thon Serena didnae know the time o’ day never mind whit her mother got up tae at the golf club. She wis far mair interested in goin oot tae parties an that. All dolled up. Don’t get me wrang,’ she turned to look at Lorimer suddenly, ‘nice enough lassie. Bonnie, too. But a wee bit of a want, if you get my drift. Not quite the full shilling, as my old maw used tae say.’
‘And Daniel?’
‘Ah, now there’s a man for you. How that pair ever produced a boy like Daniel I’ll never know. First in his class at school all the time. Always top at sports an’ all. Mind you, the lassie was sporty as well, come tae think on it.’ Betty nodded thoughtfully. ‘But such a lovely lad! Had his ain sports car, his big hoose in the toon. Aye, a real success that one. Will he take over from his faither, d’you think?’
Lorimer gave a small shrug in reply. ‘So you think that Daniel Jackson had no idea that his mother and father’s marriage was a bit shaky?’
‘Oh, now I didnae say that. I’m sure their marriage was fine. I don’t think the wee Tannock fella would’ve upset that. It was jist a..’ She searched for the word.
‘A fling?’ Lorimer suggested.
‘Aye, something like that. And I don’t think that Daniel would have known anything about it. He and Mr Tannock were pals. Used to go cycling together with Serena every Sunday afternoon. See, Daniel and Serena were’nae golfers like their folks.’
Lorimer only half listened as Betty went on about the golfing fraternity in Kilmacolm’s club. The Jackson children and Tannock were all cyclists. It was a hugely popular sport, after all; those familiar lines of figures in racing colours weaving in and out of weekend traffic were surely testament to that. And yet, this bit of information suddenly made his pulse beat a little faster.
Number 10A Greenlaw Crescent was a mid-terrace house fronted by a patch of unkempt grass, its sagging fence to one side showing years of neglect. A dirty football lay abandoned in one corner, but it was clear from the circular dark marks around the letterbox that someone had been thumping it off the once white-painted door. The curtains at the front were partially closed against the darkness, a flickering light from within showing that the television was on.
‘Think our old pal will be at home, then?’ PC Rab Duncan asked his neighbour.
‘We’ll soon see,’ came the reply.
Three thumps from a meaty fist were all it took for the door to open. A thickset figure dressed in black started at the sight of the policemen but just as the man made to close the door, the police officer wedged a size eleven boot into the open space.
‘David McGroary?’ Duncan had shouldered his way in and was now standing in the dimly lit hallway. The pungent smell of cannabis drifted towards him.
‘Aye, ye ken fine,’ McGroary replied, his lip curling in a pretence at bravado.
‘We’d like to invite you to accompany us-’ Duncan began, but before he could continue McGroary turned as if to make off down the passageway but tripped over a discarded holdall in his haste to escape. The dark blue bag burst open, its contents scattering over the floor. Duncan grinned at the sight: he’d been around long enough in this neck of the woods to know what a cache of drugs looked like.
‘Ann-Marie. Polis!’ he yelled, but before he could hit the floor, Duncan grabbed him by the bottom of his nylon jacket, pulling him upright.
‘Take yer haunds off of me, will ye!’ Davie McGroary yelled, jerking his body sideways in an attempt to resist the strong arms of the law.
‘Leave him alane ye big basturts!’ A small dark figure flung itself into the fray, yanking the sleeve of the other officer who was attempting to cuff McGroary. The sound from her throat was a deep animal growl as she lunged at the policeman, sinking her teeth into the fleshy part of his wrist.
‘Ann-Marie, get him aff me!’ McGroary urged, swinging his body away from PC Duncan, who held him fast.
But it was over in a matter of seconds, the pair mouthing obscenities as the two officers led them out into the waiting van.
Between panting breaths, the policeman cautioned the girl who was still struggling in his grasp. ‘Ann-Marie Monahan…’
Once in the van Duncan turned to his neighbour. ‘Better get that seen to,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the wound on the other man’s wrist. ‘Never know where she’s been.’
Lorimer took the stairs two at a time, straining his ears to hear what was going on. Officially he knew nothing about McGroary, so he would have to feign ignorance to begin with. And he didn’t have long to wait.
‘Hear the latest, sir?’ Young Dodgson had spotted Lorimer in the corridor and his eager face shone with the excitement of an officer who is part of a case that looks as if it is coming to a good conclusion. Lorimer knew that look. It was an adrenaline rush that made officers hyper even when the hours had made them bone-weary and cranky, wishing for a warm bed and some much needed kip.
‘We brought in a suspect for the old lady’s death,’ Dodgson continued. ‘DI Martin and DS Wainwright are interviewing him right now. Seems he thought he was being busted for dope.’ Dodgson went on to describe the girlfriend’s assault on one of the police officers and McGroary’s panic.
Lorimer nodded. ‘Great. Hope they get a result.’ He paused. Did DI Martin ask for me? he wanted to say. But of course he couldn’t bring himself to utter those words. McGroary might well be involved in the Jackson case and of course Martin would bring him into the interview situation. Wouldn’t she? Lorimer hesitated then gave Dodgson a smile before stepping into his office. Sitting behind the desk, he drummed his fingers on the scored wooden surface, wondering.
It was more than an hour before the call came but, when it did, Lorimer was propelled from his chair and left the room in seconds.
Interview Room Two was the usual nondescript box of a room that would be found in any police station. The soundproof panels were one shade away from the colour of tea biscuit and the well-disinfected floor could only be described as manky brown. The room’s only concession to colour was the blue chairs placed either side of the cheap fake-wooden table. There was no point in spending much on furnishings that could be thrown around by some mad bastard in a drunken fit of rage — and frequently were. Neither was there a fancy glass wall that gave access to one-way viewing. Such luxuries belonged firmly in the realm of TV cop shows, not in the real world down in Greenock Terminal.
‘Superintendent Lorimer has entered the room,’ DI Martin intoned, her face towards the black boxes sitting at the side of the table next to the wall.
Lorimer stood for a moment, looking at the man sitting opposite.
David McGroary was slumped into his chair, the dark tracksuit already showing patches of sweat under the armpits. His arms were folded belligerently across his chest in a typical stance of defiance against the authority that DI Martin represented. Lorimer noticed the man’s medium build, the legs thrust under the table and the filthy trainers crossed at the ankle. A mulish expression around his mouth made the detective wonder if McGroary had wearied his inquisitors with a series of No comments. It happened so often and could frustrate even the most patient of officers. But a quick glance at Rhoda Martin showed that, despite two spots of colour on her high cheekbones, the woman looked remarkably unruffled.
‘I’ll be back later,’ she told Lorimer. ‘He’s yours for now.’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector,’ Lorimer replied smoothly and sat down in the chair she had vacated before switching the tape back on and announcing, ‘DI Martin has left the interview room.’
DS Wainwright remained in the room, his chair slightly to one side as if to be ready to leap up and grab the prisoner if anything became violent. Lorimer smiled a wintry little smile to himself. He’d put money on Wainwright over McGroary any day, he thought, looking from the detective sergeant’s prop forward physique to the layers of fat rolling over the waistband of McGroary’s joggers.
‘David McGroary, I’m Superintendent Lorimer from A Division in Glasgow,’ he began, his tone polite and with the tiniest hint of deference.
At the word Glasgow, the man opposite unfolded his arms and sat up a little bit straighter. The big city obviously commanded a modicum of respect from the folk down here, Lorimer guessed. Either that, or his main dealer was from outside the district.
‘I have been sent here to continue an inquiry into a house fire in Kilmacolm. The home of your previous employer, Sir Ian Jackson,’ he said, gazing steadily at McGroary in a way that made him look back. A flash of uncertainty crossed the prisoner’s grey eyes and Lorimer saw the doubt in the parted lips and the worry frown appearing between his brows. He knows he’s a suspect, Lorimer told himself. Let’s see if he’ll crack enough to give us what we want. In that nanosecond the notion of winding up this case and heading back home to Glasgow suddenly washed over Lorimer. But such thoughts were as tempting as the very devil. Nothing should influence him right now. Nothing but a need for the truth. Martin had to find whoever had killed those old ladies from Port Glasgow but it was his remit to focus on a very different case. And was this man, sitting sweating before him, a possible suspect?
‘It would help us very much if you were willing to tell me about your relationship with Sir Ian,’ Lorimer said.
‘What relationship?’ McGroary answered with a derisory snort. ‘He wis ma boss, okay?’
‘And he fired you, right?’
McGroary nodded.
‘Mr McGroary has signalled his assent to that question,’ Lorimer told the black box. ‘And you decided to indulge in a little firing of your own, perhaps?’ he asked, the tone so smooth that McGroary’s mouth fell open. Then, as the words dawned on him, he slammed the flats of his hands on to the table, making it shudder.
‘No way! Yer no goin tae stitch me up fir that. Ah wis nowhere near the place when it happened!’ He was leaning forward now, breathing heavily and staring back into a pair of blue eyes that regarded him steadily.
‘And where exactly were you, Mr McGroary?’ Lorimer asked, not moving from his position, hands still clasped loosely in front of him.
Something about this detective’s tone must have disarmed him, for Davie McGroary began to frown and bite his lips nervously, evidently unsure of just what was going on now that the tall superintendent from Glasgow had taken over from the blonde woman.
‘I wis at hame. Ask Anne Marie. She’ll tell ye.’ The man’s eyes darted from Wainwright to Lorimer and back again and this time Lorimer saw an expression that he recognised quite easily. It was fear.
‘Certainly, Mr McGroary, we’ll do that. And easily enough since Miss Monahan isn’t too far away at present.’ Lorimer allowed the ghost of a smile to appear on his face, knowing that this would only add to the prisoner’s confusion. Whatever tactics of interrogation DI Martin had employed, his own methods were certainly working.
‘To get back to Sir Ian and Lady Pauline,’ he said. ‘You had been dismissed for a misdemeanour at your place of employment. ’ Lorimer smiled again, this time as if sharing a joke. ‘It must have been a bit of a blow, surely?’
‘Ach, he wis out of order. What wis the harm in takin a piss? Aye, I wis annoyed. Who wouldnae be? But no enough tae set fire tae his hoose and kill him. C’mon, man, that’s mental!’ McGroary shifted in his chair again, the arms folded once more and the eyes a shade less wary.
‘But you were annoyed?’
‘Ah said that already,’ McGroary replied in a tone of world weariness, as if this copper was perhaps a wee bit on the simple side despite his senior rank.
‘Who do you think would have set fire to that house?’ Lorimer turned in his chair suddenly, addressing DS Wainwright who had been listening with growing interest to the dialogue between the tall detective and their prisoner. Kate Clark had told him about Lorimer’s interview techniques and now he was enjoying them at first hand.
‘Oh, someone who didn’t have much of a conscience, I suppose, ’ Wainwright replied, playing along.
‘And someone who might just as easily knock a few old ladies down their stairs?’
‘Sounds the type to me,’ Wainwright agreed.
‘Ah didnae do it!’ McGroary roared at them, his fury igniting at being so suddenly ignored.
‘Do what, Mr McGroary?’ Lorimer asked him, his eyebrows rising in mock surprise as if suddenly realising there was another person in the room.
‘Whit ye said ah did!’ he blustered. ‘Ony of it. Nae old ladies ever came tae herm frae me. An ah nivver set off ony fires!’
Lorimer turned back to Wainwright as if the uproar across the table was a mere distraction from his conversation with the DS. ‘The prisoner’s record shows wilful fire-raising and assault to severe injury, plus the handling and supplying of drugs. Would you say that was concomitant with a person of no conscience?’ he asked, hand on his chin as though they were debating some ethical subject on Question Time.
‘Whit’s concom…?’ McGroary’s mouth was hanging open again, revealing one squint front tooth overlapping the other.
The smell of sweat was distinct now and Lorimer knew there would be damp smears on the tabletop where the man’s meaty fingers were making long streaks as he swayed back and forward in a steady rhythm, as if he were bursting for the toilet. Remembering the reason for his dismissal, Lorimer smiled again. A weak bladder might just work to their advantage, putting more pressure on the man.
‘What did you do when you knew the Jacksons were dead?’ Lorimer asked suddenly, turning his chair so swiftly that McGroary was taken off-guard.
‘What?’ The man ran a hand through a mop of already unkempt, greasy hair, making it stick up in cartoon spikes.
‘I’ll repeat the question,’ Lorimer began again, but this time he leaned forward, grasping McGroary with his eyes every bit as effectively as if he had laid hands on the man and shaken him. ‘What did you do when you knew the Jacksons were dead? Burned alive,’ he added, his face so close to the prisoner’s that he could smell the fear coming off him in waves.
‘I nivvir done nothin. I swear. Honest to God. I nivver done nothin. Aw Jesus, ye cannae think ah did that!’ he moaned, then, tearing his eyes away from Lorimer’s steely gaze, he buried his face in his outstretched arms and began to sob noisily.
‘DI Martin re-entering the room,’ a voice told them.
Lorimer stood up, pulling back his chair, leaving the prisoner to add his snot and tears to the tabletop.
‘A word,’ Lorimer whispered quietly to Martin as she approached the table. ‘Superintendent Lorimer leaving the room,’ he told the black box. Signalling to the uniformed officer outside to make his way into the interview room, Lorimer closed the door behind them.
‘Well?’ Rhoda Martin stood before him, arms folded across her slight bosom, an expression of reluctant eagerness in her green eyes.
‘Claims to have an alibi for the night of the Jackson fire,’ Lorimer told her.
‘So? Has to be corroborated, hasn’t it? Couldn’t you get him to confess?’ she challenged, head tilted to one side.
‘I doubt if he’ll confess to something he hasn’t done, Detective Inspector,’ Lorimer replied. ‘I take it he’ll remain here overnight in custody since you’ve got him on the drugs charge?’ he asked, already walking away from her. ‘Must be off now. I’ll see you in the morning,’ Lorimer said, heading along the corridor and waving a hand in the air.
Lorimer didn’t need to look behind him to know that DI Rhoda Martin’s green eyes would now be following him with pent-up curiosity. He’d leave it to her to make a case against McGroary if there was any evidence to suggest that he had indeed stalked and murdered three old women. But some instinct told him that the man had played no part in the Jackson murder.