Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Mrs Peters,’ Lorimer tried to contain the impatience in his voice, ‘we’ve been over this before. The door was locked and there was absolutely no sign of a forced entry.’

‘And who else might have had a key? Weren’t there key holders at the club?’

Lorimer didn’t answer. The house had been rented out through an agency. Sure, the agents had keys, but only for emergencies. That had been checked thoroughly right at the beginning of this investigation. Peters knew that well enough. She was clutching at straws, but the DCI couldn’t blame her.

‘Look, this is a very complicated case,’ he said. ‘I have every sympathy with your client’s position but until we have enough new evidence to show that the deaths were committed by one and the same hand, I doubt if your client will be granted bail.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’re very sympathetic, Chief Inspector.’ The lawyer’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Very sympathetic indeed.’

Lorimer listened as the line was cut, and put down his phone with a sigh. What he would give for something to show that Faulkner had been stabbed by the same person that had gunned down White and Cartwright. The forensics team had been over Nicko and Janis’s place with a fine toothcomb and all that had emerged was that someone had made a damn good job of clearing every trace of blood from that kitchen. There was nothing in the wife’s car, either — even the mess of soggy paper tissues had been scrutinised to see if any traces of blood were on them. Marion Peters was right. There was no way the footballer’s wife should be locked up in Cornton Vale prison if she was innocent. But that hadn’t been for him to decide; that was a decision taken by a member of the justiciary.

For the first time in a long time DCI Lorimer felt that things were spiralling out of control. Solly, who would have been giving him some sort of guidance, was out of the picture and what evidence there was could easily point to three separate killers. And as for Rosie? No, it was better not to think about Rosie.

How had it all begun? With the death of a footballer, he thought. Had Nicko Faulkner been such a good buy for Kelvin FC? And what about Jason White? Lorimer leaned back in his chair, hand on chin, wondering. When it came down to it, each of these new signings was a bit of a puzzle. Why would Clark want to saddle himself with a load of trouble like Jason White? His current mid-fielders were a fairly talented bunch.

Then he remembered. Donnie Douglas had been a new mid-field signing last season. The lad had shown promise, even scoring a few goals. So why go to the expense of buying a player past his prime and one that was never out of the headlines for his offthe-park antics? Had anyone at the club tried to dissuade the manager and chairman from these purchases? And was there any possible link between the two English footballers and Norman Cartwright? It was time to ask more questions, he thought. And this time he wanted the right answers.

Kelvin Park was situated in one of the quieter parts of Glasgow’s West End though it was in easy walking distance of the underground station or any of the buses that trundled along Great Western Road. Lorimer had opted for the latter, leaving his Lexus in the car park, and now he was making his way across the bridge spanning the river Kelvin. He ran a curious fingertip over the wrought ironwork, and was rewarded by the metal’s warmth. It was something he and his pals used to do on sunny summer days, long before their curiosity had been tempered by basic chemistry lessons in high school. They’d warmed their hands up then placed them on their faces shouting ‘Iron Man!’ and running down the road, giggling. Lorimer stopped for a minute, looking down at the river’s sluggish progress. Rocks, usually concealed, were sticking up like humpbacked seals basking in the heat of the day. There was a smell, too, of something rotten and sickly. Maybe it was the river itself, the weeks of drought failing to carry off whatever detritus had been chucked in by the local neds. He couldn’t recall when it had been so shallow.

Lorimer loosened his tie and slipped his jacket over one arm, glancing back towards the west, noting the faded grandeur of grey granite terraces looking down their middle-class noses at the colourful huddle of shops on the opposite side of the road. The West End was a melting pot of classes and creeds, he thought, and as if to sum up its diverseness, a bicycle whizzed by, smart leather briefcase strapped to its rear pillion, causing a small draught of air to disturb the saris of two Indian women coming towards him. Lorimer stepped aside to allow them passage, noting their heads bent together intimately, their low voices speaking in their native tongue. They were mother and daughter, he decided, out for a spot of shopping if the carrier bags clutched in bejewelled fingers were anything to go by.

Lorimer rounded a corner and headed towards the football grounds. The leafy drives swung away from Great Western Road and marched purposefully towards Woodlands Road and the foothills of Kelvingrove Park. With a glance up to his left, Lorimer took in the curve of flats that dominated the skyline — that was where Solly and Rosie lived, he thought, then looked away, suddenly refusing to pick out the windows of their home. It was too much to bear, this not knowing whether the pathologist was going to make it or not. How the hell Solly was coping was anybody’s guess. Best not to dwell on it, he decided. Instead he swept his gaze across the park and beyond to where he could see the floodlights reaching into a cloudless sky.

As usual, the sight of Kelvin Park filled Lorimer with mixed emotions. His boyhood had been dominated by football, going to the matches with Dad had been the highlight of most weekends during the season. Hot pies and Bovril just didn’t seem to have the same taste nowadays. But the club held more for him now than mere childhood memories; it was a place full of secrets and ghosts that had more to do with the current custodians of Kelvin FC. And if he was right, there were people in that club who were hiding things that could give him a clue about why these three men had been killed.

Ron Clark was standing outside the main door, cigarette in hand. Had he been waiting for him? Lorimer couldn’t decide.

The Kelvin manager stubbed out his fag in the sand-filled metal ash-box, wiped a hand down his tracksuit trousers and took a step towards the DCI.

‘Good to see you, Chief Inspector,’ Clark began, a tentative smile working on his mouth. Lorimer took the hand that had been extended, wondering at the man’s words. Good to see him? He didn’t think so. But folk tended to hide behind platitudes in his game.

‘Any sign of Douglas?’ Lorimer asked.

The Kelvin manager shook his head, not meeting Lorimer’s eyes. ‘Nothing. We contacted his mother in Aberdeen, like you suggested. Don’t think I gave anything away, just blethered on about things in general. Gave her a chance to ask about Donnie, and she did. Wanted to know how he’d been since the tragedies , as she put it. So it’s clear that he’s not been in touch with home.’

Lorimer nodded towards the door. ‘Can we go inside? It’s a bit hot out here.’

‘How about taking a walk up to the East stand?’ Clark suggested, pointing up at the ranks of seats blurred among the shadows. ‘It’ll be cooler there.’

Lorimer spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence and followed Ron Clark around the building and through a metal gate. It was odd to be here, inside Kelvin Park, the stadium yawning like an empty mouth around the pitch. The sprinklers were on and as they climbed up a flight of steep stone stairs he could hear a swish as the water scattered droplets on to the metal safety barrier. At the far end of the park he could see the figure of the groundsman who appeared to be sorting through a pile of white netting, oblivious to any visitors who might be watching him.