Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘First time you’ve seen it too, huh?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘No. I’ve known this painting all of my life,’ she said.

‘That so? You’re one lucky lady, then. It’s taken me a pretty long time to make my way to this place.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Worth waiting for?’

‘You bet!’ the Canadian replied, turning his gaze away from the painting to appraise the woman who stood by his side.

What were those green eyes seeing, Maggie wondered: a Scottish woman, well past her youth but still with a girlish figure, her dark unruly tresses falling below her shoulders? Or did he see the faint lines around her eyes and mouth, that yearning look that she sometimes glimpsed when she caught sight of herself in a mirror? Whatever it was, his expression seemed to tell her that he liked what he saw and Maggie experienced an unexpected thrill of pleasure.

‘This might be a little forward,’ the Canadian began, ‘but would you let me buy you a coffee? I’d love to hear what you think of our friend here.’ He nodded back towards the picture. Maggie thought about it for a moment. Did he mean to begin a discourse on Christ? Was he a religious nut of some kind? But no, surely he meant the painting, Dali’s fabulous masterpiece, rather than its subject? Besides, it was only a coffee and the man’s voice suggested a cultured background that might be fun to explore.

‘Yes, thank you. Coffee would be fine,’ she replied at last, her eyes meeting his, noting how they crinkled in delighted satisfaction.

Maggie grinned back, suddenly, half-shocked at herself. Was she being picked up? Never go away with strange men, she thought to herself, laughingly. And surely a policeman’s wife should know better!

‘There’s a place on the ground floor,’ the Canadian began.

‘The basement will be quieter,’ Maggie told him firmly. ‘And cooler,’ she added. He stopped and half-turned towards her, hand outstretched. ‘Forgetting my manners,’ he began. ‘Alan Osborne.’

Maggie returned the handshake, feeling his fingers strong and warm. ‘Mrs Lorimer,’ she said, immediately adding ‘Maggie’, aware of how formal she sounded — like being back in the classroom.

‘Well, Maggie Lorimer. What can you tell me about Salvador Dali’s painting?’

Alan Osborne was sitting opposite her, stirring his coffee (black, no sugar, Maggie noticed), his eyes twinkling again, leaving her unsure about where his interest really lay. They’d indulged in a bout of small talk while waiting for their coffees and Maggie had found out that he was a professor of logic and semantics at McGill University. Her teaching career seemed to interest him, though, especially her sojourn in Florida schools. But now the Canadian was back to where they had started, with the Dali.

‘Well, it’s been about a bit over the years. It was slashed by a fanatic a long time ago, then repaired.’ She frowned. ‘I remember being told about it but I think the damage was done before I was born.’ And I’m not telling you how old I am, she thought swiftly. ‘Then it was here for years and years before being moved to another museum in town. Have you been on a Glasgow tour bus?’

‘Sure have. Found out a heap of things from a very interesting tour guide.’

‘Do you remember Glasgow Cathedral and St Mungo’s Museum? That was where the Christ of St John of the Cross went for a while. Now it’s back here,’ she said fondly.

‘Okay.’ Alan Osborne sipped his coffee. ‘But what does it mean to you, apart from being a bit of your city’s history?’

Maggie cocked her head to one side as if unsure of his drift.

‘I saw that look on your face. That’s what stopped me in my tracks. I said to myself, Here’s someone who can see into this painting.’

‘What sort of look?’ Maggie asked.

‘Like … supplication, I suppose you’d call it. Like you were asking that figure for a big favour.’

Maggie shivered suddenly, remembering the pact she’d made with God that morning.

‘Cold?’ Alan Osborne put out his hand and brushed her fingers gently.

She shook her head, drawing her hands back under the table. ‘No, just a bit surprised. I wasn’t aware of letting my feelings show back there,’ she began. ‘A friend of mine had an accident — a bad car smash — she’s not in a good shape.’ Maggie bit her lip, astonished at the powerful emotion welling up inside her.

‘That’s too bad,’ the Canadian murmured. ‘Hard on you, too. Not being able to do anything for her, I guess.’

Maggie nodded, unable to speak.

‘Know what it says to me?’ the man continued, his voice low and gentle. ‘That painting tells me that death isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be. And maybe there’s more good stuff still to come …’ He paused.

‘Do you have any experience of beautiful deaths, then?’ Maggie asked, trying to keep her tone light.

‘As a matter of fact I have, Mrs Lorimer. My wife died in my arms three years ago. A beautiful experience I’ll never forget. Brain tumour,’ he added.

‘I’m sorry,’ Maggie mumbled.

‘Don’t be. We had some great times together and memories that’ll never die. Not unless I succumb to old-timer’s disease,’ he joked.

‘My husband has a lot of experience of death too,’ Maggie said suddenly.

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a policeman, Mr Osborne. He solves murder cases,’ Maggie replied, looking her companion straight in the eye. ‘And none of them ever seem to be beautiful at all.’

‘Would you look at this.’ Lorimer moved to one side, enabling his colleague to see the computer screen. ‘We’ve got a reply.’

Alistair Wilson pulled at the knot on his tie. The DCI’s room was a bit cooler than his own; a desk fan ruffled a pile of papers that were kept from flying away by a bit of quartz-crazed pink rock that Lorimer had brought back from his holiday.

‘So it was a nutter, then?’ Wilson murmured, looking at the response to the purported killer.

Have you absolutely no respect? Idiots like you should be barred from Kelvin.

‘There’s more,’ added Lorimer.

Do you not think that Mr Kennedy has enough to think about without fools like you making stupid threats? Get a life, will you! From: A real Kelvin fan.

‘He’s saying exactly what we think, isn’t he? Some daft kid’s idea of a joke.’

‘Well, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s no way we can trace a sender. Looks like our irate fan will nip that nonsense in the bud, though, doesn’t it?’ Lorimer replied.

‘Why d’you think their manager was so upset by it, though?’

Lorimer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? I got the impression Ron Clark was a bit tense when I met him. Not surprising, under the circumstances. Losing two key players like that …’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I will say this, though, he seemed to have a bit of a guilty conscience about the referee.’

‘Oh?’

‘Nothing sinister, at least I doubt it. Just a case of wishing he’d left certain things unsaid after the match. My guess is he had a real go at Cartwright then felt bad about it after the man’s death.’

‘Aye, who wouldn’t,’ agreed Wilson. ‘Well, where do we go from here?’

‘Any luck yet in tracing the person Tam Baillie called?’

‘Nope. He’d received an email from someone who was definitely not Pat Kennedy, instructing him to call when Jason White turned up at the club. Why he hadn’t spotted that it wasn’t Kennedy’s usual email address, God alone knows. Technical support reckons it was probably sent from an internet cafe. And the number he was asked to phone has drawn a blank.’

Lorimer leaned back, still gazing towards the computer screen as if somehow he could draw inspiration from it. Where do we go from here? Wilson’s words seemed to ring in Lorimer’s ears. That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? He felt uneasy about using a psychological profiler that he didn’t know and trust, especially after working so closely with Solly Brightman. They were just going to have to tackle this case with all the other means at their disposal. Had it been a case of multiple killings with the same MO there might have been some sense in having the case screened on Crimewatch . They got results from time to time, after all. But this case was so full of twists, he just couldn’t see his way forward.