Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Outside, things were happening; Lorimer’s triple murder case was no doubt spawning reams of paper down at the divisional HQ but they would have to continue the investigation without his input. At least for now.

‘You did what ?’ Patrick Kennedy’s voice rose in a crescendo that made the man before him take one step backwards. ‘When did you suddenly become my keeper, Ron?’ The chairman’s tone contained a sneer that made Ron Clark’s cheeks flush.

‘I just thought-’

‘You’re not paid to think, Ron, you’re paid to manage a football team. When I need you to cover my back I’ll ask you. Okay?’

The Kelvin manager nodded, tight-lipped, and turned on his heel. The door behind him closed with a shudder as if he wanted to slam it hard but lacked the guts to do so.

Pat Kennedy glared at the door for a moment then gave an enormous sigh. That had been a bit stupid. He needed Ron on his side. To alienate him was not just daft, it was potentially lethal. Still, DCI Lorimer was right: this crazy website message was probably a schoolboy prank. He’d not give it any more thought than it deserved.

Kennedy drummed his fingers on the desk. The incident had ruffled him, though. Maybe it would be best to keep a low profile for a bit. Tell Marie to cool things off until all this had blown over. It was too dodgy to have her here after hours or even in a country house hotel where he might be recognised by the media. They’d pick up again at some future date, he thought. Better to spend time with Barbara doing family stuff. Safer, too, added a little voice. Kennedy’s mouth twisted in a grimace. He just needed to keep his head straight then he could gain total control of the club, and be shot of his wife into the bargain. To show his hand too soon was risking everything. He hated all this enforced caution with the press at every gate. The club had suddenly become smaller and more confined, as if there was no place to hide. But from what, Pat Kennedy asked himself, was he hoping to hide?

The telephone’s shrill note disturbed his train of thought.

‘Kennedy.’

‘Ah, Mr Kennedy. Just wanted to check something with you. You didn’t tell us that you were the owner of Jojo’s nightclub.’

‘Common knowledge, Chief Inspector. Didn’t think to mention it.’

‘Nor did you tell us that Baillie had told you Jason White was at the club on the night he was killed.’

There was a silence between the two men until Lorimer said, ‘Hello, are you still there, Mr Kennedy?’

Pat Kennedy’s mouth was suddenly dry as he remembered exactly where he had been on the night of the footballer’s murder. ‘I didn’t take any call from Tam Baillie that night, Chief Inspector,’ he said slowly. ‘And if he says he called me, then he’s lying.’

Lorimer clicked his mobile shut. The voice on the other end had sounded husky, disbelieving. It was amazing how voices could reveal things. And that little conversation assured Lorimer that the Kelvin chairman was telling him the truth. He’d dispatch DC Cameron and DI Grant to Jojo’s to check up on Baillie’s story. Someone had been telephoned by the bouncer, that was clear. And if it hadn’t been Pat Kennedy, then who was it? Lorimer closed his eyes tightly. Progress in this case was maddeningly slow. Already there were veiled hints about the case being reviewed. That would mean another officer coming in to check up on all the work his team had already done. Performance management, Mitchison had reminded him yet again, as if he hadn’t been measuring each and every action with infinitesimal care. But maybe this would give them the lead they desperately needed. He fervently hoped so.

Maggie closed her eyes. It seemed wrong to make a pact with God, but under the circumstances … Please, she implored, please let her recover, let her be whole and strong and … just Rosie again. She swallowed hard to fight the lump forming in her throat. I’ll give up Chancer, you can make his owners turn up, just make her better, will you?

As if on cue, the ginger cat sprang on to her lap, making her open her eyes. Was this an omen? Don’t be so silly, woman, Maggie scolded herself. The cat jumps on your knee every time you sit down.

The house seemed too quiet. There was no sound from outside, no children shouting, no strimmers buzzing their way around neighbouring lawns, nothing to disturb the silence of her home, just the muffled purring of her cat. But today Maggie would have welcomed some reminder of human existence. Her immediate pals were all away, Mum was off on a senior citizens’ bus run and she couldn’t think of anyone to phone for a chat. Maggie tried to imagine what her friends might be doing on holiday. With their families. Playing by the fringes of continental beaches, perhaps, or exploring the delights of art galleries and museums? If she’d had that first child, it would be twelve years old by now, she mused. But there had been no first baby or second, or third. In the early days they’d always said three kids would be great. But none had survived the early stages of pregnancy and now there would never be any wee faces to look at and see whose features they’d inherited.

The art galleries aren’t just for families, she thought suddenly. And it will be cool in there, away from this blistering heat. Chancer made a meow of protest as she stood up and let him slip from her knees. That’s what she’d do, Maggie decided. She’d go and see some other old friends, ones she’d neglected for far too long: the Monets and Rembrandts, for instance. It would also take her mind off Rosie Fergusson. And that was what she really wanted, wasn’t it? The idea of Rosie lying there between life and death was simply too horrible to bear.

*

Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum had undergone a transformation in recent years with a new educational facility and basement restaurant, not to mention the revamped exhibition areas. Maggie had been one of the first to visit it after its reopening, a day full of families with excited children pointing at Sir Roger the huge stuffed elephant and the cheetah and the penguins, as well as the Spitfire suspended from the gallery’s ceiling.

Today it was quieter. Several mothers with wee ones in buggies were in evidence but for the most part it seemed as if Kelvingrove was playing host to visitors from overseas. A gaggle of Asian tourists with their cameras slung around their necks passed Maggie as she made her way along the corridor towards the Dali. It was good to have it back home, she thought. St Mungo’s Museum of Religious Life and Art had given it a glorious place of honour for a few years but Christ of St John of the Cross belonged here, within the sanctuary of the city’s famous old galleries.

Maggie Lorimer gave a sigh. It was easy to lose oneself inside that painting; the shores of the Sea of Galilee looked so cool, and inviting, the Christ’s eyes on the land below, arms stretched out to encompass his little world. You didn’t feel the pain, Maggie thought. It wasn’t like those paintings designed to horrify with an emaciated figure hanging like a bloodless corpse, with ashen-faced women mooning around. No, this was different. It spoke of a triumph over death, the cross almost floating away to heaven as you gazed and gazed.

‘You wouldn’t think that such a death could have been so beautiful,’ a voice remarked.

Maggie turned, startled at the words. She’d been so lost in her contemplation of the painting that she’d failed to notice another person step up beside her. A man of around her own age was looking at the Dali, not at her. And what was that accent? Canadian, she decided. Maggie nodded, unsure of how she was expected to reply, for it was beautiful, the landscape a masterpiece, the Christ figure utterly compelling.