‘For you,’ Simon said softly, his eyes shining, ‘I made it specially.’
Chris sat up in bed, pulling the duvet up around his waist. ‘That was nice of you,’ he remarked, his hands outstretched to receive the breakfast tray.
Simon shrugged. ‘It’s nearly Christmas after all, isn’t it? Goodwill to all men, even queers like us, eh?’ he laughed and turned away, leaving the man in the bed looking after him, a puzzled expression on his face. Simon had taken it so well last night, he thought. They’d had a great night together, just like old times. He’d never even mentioned Tina and Chris had offered no explanation. That could wait. He’d hardly had time to adjust his own emotions let alone talk to Simon about the previous day’s revelations. It was enough that they were still friends.
Chris spooned the porridge into his mouth. Great! Simon had made it just the way he liked it, big dollops of syrup sliding down the sides of the cereal bowl.
When the first spasm hit the back of his throat, Chris instinctively tried to balance the tray to stop it falling over the bed. His voice wheezed as the cry for help stuck in his gullet, the air refusing to flow through his trachea. With a crash the tray landed on the floor, the grey contents of the cereal bowl splattering in a sticky mess against the wall.
As Chris fought for breath he watched the lumps sliding downwards like slowly moving slugs leaving milky trails dripping on to the carpet.
The shock waves were making him dizzy now and he couldn’t focus. Where was Simon? Why wasn’t he here to help him?
Then from somewhere far away he heard a voice telling him terrible things. Things that weren’t true. His hands clutched at the Christmas card beside his bed, its glossy picture crushing beneath his fingers as the darkness rolled over him.
When her front door bell rang, Tina was certain it would be Chris.
‘Coming!’ she called. So what if she wasn’t even dressed yet? It would be her brother. It had to be. ‘My big brother!’ she said aloud, the very sound of the words like a caress.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said her voice registering sudden disappointment at the sight of the man standing on her doorstep. Then, seeing the expression on his face, her tone became anxious. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? Nothing’s happened to Chris?’
Tina stepped back as the man came into the house. He had not uttered a word but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. With a cry Tina stumbled against the edge of the banister as his hands caught her shoulders, pinning her against the staircase. Her scream was silenced as his fist slammed into her mouth then she heard herself moan, the taste of blood mingling with the sudden pain.
Before she could even try to scramble away, the blows began to rain down on her head then she felt his hands pulling at her dressing gown, releasing its cord.
‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘Please. No!’ Tina struggled against him as she felt her body being pulled this way and that, her hands fixed behind her and her ankles pinioned tightly with the cord.
‘Stop it! Why are you doing this to me?’ she cried, her breath coming out in great sobs.
Then the girl’s eyes widened in alarm as he untied the kerchief from his neck and twirled it between his fingers. Her cry was muffled as the gag cut into her mouth, her final protests silenced.
‘Why?’ He broke the silence at last. ‘You have the nerve to ask me why? So that you and your bastard will never see the light of day, that’s why,’ he sneered, panting slightly as he stood over her abject body.
Then Tina watched in horror as he pulled a familiar object from his pocket. It was a small cigarette lighter shaped like a harp. Her eyes stared wildly as the lighter snapped open, its flame rising higher as he turned the tiny cogwheel.
Then, laughing, he spun the flame around his head and let it catch hold of the curtains above her.
‘Just for starters,’ he laughed, then dipped the flame against the carpet, watching as it licked a smouldering brown path along the floor.
‘Where the hell is he? I haven’t the time for this today.’ Lorimer fumed. He’d only a few hours left before checking in at the airport and he was damned if Christopher Hunter was going to screw that up for him. ‘I’m going down there myself. Coming?’
Solly shrugged. With Lorimer in this mood, did he have a choice?
The door was lying open when they arrived at the top of the stairs. Solly glanced at Lorimer’s face, recognising that grim look of foreboding. He shivered suddenly
There was something not right about this. The two men made their way down the darkened hall towards a light that flared out from a side room.
‘My God!’ Solly breathed. ‘What has he done to himself?’
Chris Hunter lay unconscious, the sheets pulled away from his body as it slumped heavily over the edge of the bed. The smell of vomit made Solly take a step backwards, his hand across his mouth, but Lorimer was immediately at the bedside, seeing the swollen lips and the rash that was visible beneath pale, stubbly skin. As his hand felt for a pulse, his fingers met the touch of metal. Around the man’s wrist was a bracelet. Lorimer peered at the inscription.
‘He’s still alive,’ Lorimer turned to the psychologist. ‘Look here. It says he’s a severe allergy sufferer. This is a Medicalert bracelet. And there’s a number on it.’ He pulled out his mobile, jabbing out the numbers. ‘Ambulance. This is an emergency.’
The policeman explained the situation and relayed the membership number on the bracelet while Solly’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess on the wall, the fallen tray and the ioniser on the shelf above the bed. He frowned suddenly, wishing that Rosie were here to tell them what might have happened to the man lying across the bed.
Solly’s eyes returned to the black box above the bed. ‘See that?’ he pointed it out to Lorimer. ‘My sister used one of these for her pet hair allergy. Could he have had some sort of asthma attack?’
‘Check his things,’ Lorimer replied, still listening to the voice at the other end of the line.
‘What do we want?’ Solly spoke almost to himself as he moved across the room. ‘A medical card of some kind?’ He bent down to retrieve a jacket that had fallen from the back of a chair. Lorimer’s face darkened as he listened to the voice on the emergency line. ‘OK. I’ll try my best but for God’s sake get a move on.’ He clicked shut the mobile.
‘We’ve to look for an pre-loaded adrenaline kit. It’s like the sort of pen that diabetics carry around. They say he should have one wherever he goes so it won’t be far away. Looks like he’s suffering an anaphylactic shock.’ Lorimer said. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything in here or that poor beggar hasn’t a chance,’ he said, glancing down at the man on the bed as he rummaged in the bedside drawer.
‘Bingo!’ Lorimer breathed out in relief as he held up the sealed kit.
The psychologist looked away as Lorimer administered the drug. He focused instead on the arm drooping from the sheets, its clenched fist brushing the floor. Obscured at first by the corner of the duvet, Chris Hunter’s motionless hand was closed around a Christmas card.
Solly bent down, his fingers prising the card from the unconscious man’s grasp. His foot pushed against the bed linen revealing a torn envelope. Smoothing out the creases of the Christmas card Solly opened it. Inside was a photograph of a young girl smiling out from the crumpled gloss. He read the sloping handwriting, nodding to himself.
‘What d’you make of this?’ he began to say, then both men turned their heads as the sound of feet came racing up the stairs.
‘Thank God!’ Lorimer breathed as the paramedic crew arrived at the bedroom door, stretcher and oxygen at the ready. ‘Here,’ Lorimer handed over the empty adrenaline pen. ‘I gave him this just before you arrived.’
‘Might help. How long has he been in a coma?’ one of the paramedics asked.
Lorimer shook his head, his mouth a grim line. ‘We don’t know. He was supposed to be meeting me an hour ago and didn’t turn up. God knows how long he’s been like this.’
‘OK. We’ve got the rest of his details from the Medicalert database. Come on, fella, let’s get you out of here.’
The two men watched as Chris Hunter was gently lifted away from his bed. His body, wrapped in double cellular blankets and strapped onto the stretcher, looked ominously still as it was carried out of the flat by the paramedics.
‘Think he’ll make it?’ Lorimer asked them.
‘Maybe. Depends if he responds to that shot you gave him,’ one of the crew replied.
Lorimer turned back to see Solly by the window. The psychologist was examining a Christmas card that he’d picked up from the floor. Had it fallen from the window ledge? There were several others there in a row. Curious, Lorimer moved towards the window and looked over Solly’s shoulder
‘That’s Tina Quentin-Jones,’ he said, seeing the photograph that had been stuck inside the card.
‘See what she’s written,’ Solly showed him. There, under Season’s Greetings were the words, From your new wee sister, with love, Tina. December 22nd. Happy Christmas.
Lorimer’s mind spun with sudden possibilities. He turned to face Solly. ‘What else could she have given him?’
Once more he recalled her desperate expression at Karen’s funeral. Did Tina Quentin-Jones imagine that Chris Hunter had killed her mother?
‘Could she have deliberately given him something to bring on this reaction?’
‘Somebody did,’ Solly pointed to the porridge congealing on the skirting board. ‘Who else lives here?’
‘Simon Corrigan, but he …’ Lorimer paused. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly, letting his gaze fall to the window ledge. He picked up one card after another until he came to the one he was looking for.
‘What does this tell you?’ Lorimer held it up for the psychologist to see. ‘Not the sort of message you’d write to your mate, is it?’ Solomon read the message on the card, his face serious as the implication sank in. Then he looked up.
‘Where is he, then? Why’s Corrigan not here if he’s expressing his undying love to Christopher Hunter?’ Solly asked.
Suddenly Carl Bekaert’s words came back to Lorimer. ‘Love. It’s not a dirty word?’
‘Love. You just said it. That’s what it’s all about,’ Lorimer stared at Solly.
‘That’s what it’s been about from the beginning, only we couldn’t see it.’ For a moment there was a triumphant spark in his eye then his expression changed.
‘No. Oh, dear God, no.’ Lorimer’s eyes flicked from one Christmas card to the other. ‘He’s gone after the girl. Quick, let’s get out of here.’
As the flames began their ascent of the heavily embossed wallpaper, Tina struggled to free her hands from their bonds. She could still hear Simon in the lounge, the sound of a glass clinking against a bottle. Suddenly it reminded her of her father and his nightly tipples.
Dad. Where was he supposed to be this morning? She couldn’t remember. Was it a theatre day? or was he doing rounds? Tina couldn’t remember. They’d had an awful row the other night, and she’d said some cutting things. If only she could take them all back now, unsay them.
She whimpered as the fire whooshed upwards, the wallpaper dissolving into its yellow tongues. He’d never get to hear her say that she really loved him; that he was her dad and that was all that really mattered. The girl struggled harder, a sudden urge to live, to fight against this terror forcing the adrenalin through her veins.
From her twisted position at the foot of the stairs Tina could hear the musician as he moved about her home. She heard the door of the stereo cabinet opening and the clunk of Simon’s glass as he laid it down. What on earth was he doing now?
Her answer came moments later as the final movement of Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’ crashed at top volume through the rooms. He was mad. The man was totally insane, listening to Tchaikovsky and drinking whisky as he burnt down her house.
If only she could reach the front door again! The panic button was at waist height, next to the chain that was hardly ever used, she thought, crazy tears filling her eyes.
Tina crawled towards the foot of the stairs. The fire had got a hold of the carpet between where she was now and the door. She’d have to roll her body through the lines of flames if she were to make it.
The pain shot through her legs as she inched down, elbows taking her weight.
The thump as her body landed on the floor made her stop, head craned to see if her attacker had heard, but the music had evidently drowned out the noise. She could see his back to her as he drank down her father’s whisky, one arm conducting the unseen orchestra. Heart thudding, Tina grasped at hope. At least the cigarette lighter was laid aside for the moment.
With a jerk Tina rolled over the line of flame, her head bursting with the effort. Would her dressing gown catch fire? Or would she smother the flames? She could smell the burning carpet beneath her even as her body felt the heat.
Hardly daring to look, Tina forced herself against the corner of the wall beside the door, her spine protesting as she wrenched her body upright. The strain on her wrists and ankles made her wobble dangerously.
With a sigh she let her head fall forward towards the small steel box, forcing her face sideways so that her nose dipped under its rim.
For a moment nothing happened then she saw the man turn towards her, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.
‘What the hell?’
No. She would never do it now.
As he lunged towards her Tina pushed her face against the space beneath the box with the last remnant of her strength then the whole world exploded in a shrieking wail as the alarm went off.
The sound of exploding canon fire roared from the house when Lorimer pushed open the door. He caught the girl’s body as it fell towards him. Smoke billowed out in grey clouds from the house.
‘Quick! Get her out of here!’ Lorimer dragged the girl over the doorstep as Solly hurried to take her in his arms.
Fanned by the sudden draught from the open door, the flames leapt higher. Through the layers of smoke Lorimer could just make out a figure moving inside.
‘Lorimer! No!’ Solly’s cry went unheeded as the policeman thrust his way back into the burning house.
Coughing, Lorimer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. The flames were shooting up into the stairwell now, shrivelling the walls like a rising brown tide. Still the music thundered, the crackle of fire a deadly counterpoint. Still he struggled into the lounge, the smoke coming at him in waves.
Simon Corrigan turned to face him, his arms raised as he beat time to the music, one hand holding a half empty bottle of whisky. Through the smoke he could see the musician laughing aloud, his face shining with a delirium of pleasure. With each sweep of his arms the whisky splashed to the ground, flames shooting out around his feet.
Lorimer coughed, waving his free hand to clear the air between them.
‘Get out!’ he called hoarsely. ‘Now. Before it’s too late!’
With a final crash the music rose to its climax and the musician gave a grandiose bow.
His screams as the flames caught his red-gold hair urged Lorimer forward. He grabbed the man’s arms and hauled him backwards in the direction of the open door, Corrigan’s heels dragging on the burning carpet, hampering them both.
The smoke was so thick now that Lorimer could barely make out the outline of the front door. There was a shower of sparks above him, making him look up as the walls seemed to move.
Choking, Lorimer pulled the musician out of the hall just as the banister above them gave way with a sickening wrench of timber.
‘Over here!’
Blindly, Lorimer stumbled forwards, other hands taking Corrigan out of his grasp. He was dimly aware of the flashing blue lights and the uniformed officers crowding around him.
‘Here,’ Solly was saying, ‘Over here!’
Lorimer allowed himself to be led away from the roaring behind him, his eyes smarting from the smoke. His legs felt weak as he was helped into the back of the police car.
‘The girl?’ he coughed as the words stuck in his throat. ‘Is she OK?’ he croaked.
Solly nodded, his hands on Lorimer’s shoulders. He was looking at Lorimer with an expression he had never seen in the psychologist’s face before.
‘You could have been killed!’ Solly was shaking Lorimer by the lapels of his coat, tears brimming in his large, dark eyes. For a moment neither man spoke then Lorimer gently drew Solly’s hands from his collar.
‘What about Corrigan?’
Solly turned to watch as the ambulance drew away from the kerb. ‘Who knows? He was still alive when you brought him out.’
‘Sir! Chief Inspector Lorimer?’ A uniformed officer was suddenly standing by the squad car. ‘We’ve just heard that Carl Bekaert’s been picked up at a warehouse outside the city. They found him with a number of stolen musical instruments. He’s been charged,’ the constable added.
‘Great. Remember to wish Jo Grant and the team a Merry Christmas from me,’ Lorimer nodded.
‘You all right, sir?’ the constable asked, suddenly noticing his superior’s dishevelled appearance.
‘Never better, pal, never better,’ Lorimer started a laugh that rapidly turned into a cough.
‘We should have you checked out at the hospital,’ Solly began. He turned towards Lorimer and sighed, shaking his head in mock despair. ‘That was one hell of a risk you took. Your wife will have kittens when she finds out.’
Lorimer’s mouth opened in horror as he looked at his watch. ‘Oh great! I’m supposed to be at Glasgow airport as of ten minutes ago! Forget the hospital.’
‘What about Mrs Finlay?’
‘Flynn was picking her up by taxi.’ He slumped helplessly against the seat. ‘Just in case I didn’t make it in time,’ he added, his voice heavy with irony.
‘Phone him. Tell him we’re on our way.’ Solly signalled to the constable who was still regarding Lorimer with interest. ‘We need a driver. Now!’
Flynn put down the phone. The flight had been called five minutes ago and Mrs Finlay was fretting by his side, calling her son-in-law all manner of unseasonal names.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘An emergency,’ Flynn told her briefly. ‘He’s on his way now.’
‘That’s not much good,’ Maggie’s mother bristled. ‘If I don’t make a move soon we’ll both miss that plane.’
Flynn looked around the departure lounge wildly. Surely there was something he could do? Over by the door he spotted two transport policemen, their jackets vivid yellow against the dreich December afternoon.
‘Wait here a minute. I’ll be straight back. Don’t move. Right?’ Flynn grasped his new mobile phone and leapt out of his seat, grinning slightly at the elderly woman’s astonished face.
A few minutes later Flynn clicked off the mobile phone that Lorimer had given him. It was a wee cracker, but it just couldn’t be helped. With a sigh he dropped it into the water bucket and turned away.
He had just time to return to Maggie’s mum before the alarm went off, heralding the calm voice that resounded through the airport asking everyone to evacuate the building.