Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Marie McPhail looked as if she were about to reply but thought better of it, her cheeks reddening.

It was a simple thing, but it immediately gave away the woman’s secret. Lorimer nodded to himself. So, Pat Kennedy was playing away from home, was he?

‘Chief Inspector, you wanted to see me.’ Kennedy grasped Lorimer’s hand in one great fist, then let it go, seating himself behind his desk and motioning the policeman to take a seat opposite. It was a gesture typical of a powerful man, putting something physical between them and establishing his authority from the outset. Lorimer responded by crossing his legs and sitting back as though in the presence of an old chum. It might irritate Kennedy, but that was what he wanted; a chance to rattle the man’s gilded cage.

‘Yes, Mr Kennedy. Can you tell me a bit about the club’s financial state at present?’

Pat Kennedy looked mildly surprised as if he had been prepared for a completely different sort of question.

‘Well, now, you’d have to ask our accountants.’

‘I’m asking you,’ Lorimer persisted.

For a moment Kennedy glared at him, but there was something in the policeman’s expression that brooked no nonsense and he sniffed instead.

‘We’re doing fine, Chief Inspector. The club has a well-documented investment portfolio that our shareholders can have access to any time they like. Our gates have been pretty much as expected, season tickets are at an all-time high.’ He attempted a smile but failed to bring it off. ‘What more can I tell you?’

‘How about your financial position regarding the transfer fees of Nicko Faulkner and Jason White?’

‘They were paid!’ Kennedy protested.

‘And recouped from the players’ life insurance policies, I suppose?’

Lorimer’s blue stare was met by a single ‘Ah’ from the Kelvin chairman.

Kennedy cleared his throat and licked his lips nervously before continuing, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s our business to find things out, Mr Kennedy. If your insurance policies cover more than players’ injuries then the club might stand to make quite a killing on these two victims, if you’ll forgive my pun,’ Lorimer said.

‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, Chief Inspector,’ Kennedy replied, bunching his fists on top of the desk, ‘but you’ve been totally misinformed. Kelvin FC does not stand to gain by these players’ deaths.’ He thumped hard, making some sheets of paper tremble on the smooth wooden surface. ‘In fact,’ he leaned forward and Lorimer saw the rage in his eyes, ‘we have made a huge financial loss with the deaths of White and Faulkner.’

Lorimer nodded slowly. He’d suspected as much, but his questions had been designed to get under the chairman’s guard and it looked as though he had succeeded. ‘Can I ask how you intend to recoup these financial losses, Mr Kennedy?’

‘We don’t have to pay two rather large wages, Chief Inspector, and we won’t be making any more offers for players this season. Simple.’

‘So nobody in Kelvin FC would have a financial motive for their deaths, then?’

Patrick Kennedy sank back into his chair, a frown upon his face as he realised just what sort of a trick Lorimer had played.

‘I think that’s a pretty cheap shot, Lorimer,’ he began. ‘Money isn’t everything you know,’ he continued, in such a sanctimonious tone that Lorimer wanted to laugh. Were Solly here, the psychologist would have spotted the lie straight off. He’d bet his police pension that money mattered a hell of a lot to that big man sitting behind the desk.

‘You’d be surprised what money — or the lack of it — can do to some people, Mr Kennedy,’ Lorimer countered. ‘It’s not unusual for us to see that as a motive for murder,’ he murmured.

‘Well, I doubt if anybody murdered these poor lads for money, Chief Inspector,’ Kennedy went on, his voice still heavy with the kind of false pity that made Lorimer’s stomach churn.

‘And Norman Cartwright?’

‘What about him? He was shot by some lunatic fan, surely? Isn’t that what your people think?’

Lorimer didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to reveal what his team were thinking to the Kelvin chairman, but it was interesting to note that there was no sorrow in Kennedy’s voice for the referee.

‘And you’re quite happy that this website message is also a bit of madness?’

‘Look, the serious fans all register on our official website. This rogue one was just a bit of sick fun on somebody’s part. I really don’t think anybody is out to get me or anyone else in the club.’

‘Someone tried to pass themselves off as you in that email to Tam Baillie, though, didn’t they, Mr Kennedy?’

‘Looks like it,’ Kennedy muttered, avoiding Lorimer’s stare.

‘Baillie was quite certain that it was your voice on the telephone when he made his call.’

‘Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he?’ Kennedy snapped.

‘Somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to make it seem as if you were keeping tabs on Jason White,’ Lorimer mused. ‘Wanted you in the frame for it, perhaps?’

‘Look, Chief Inspector, I’ve told you repeatedly I was not in contact with Baillie that night. Nor did I ask him to inform me about White’s whereabouts.’

‘And you still say you were here all of that evening?’

‘Until I went home, yes.’

‘And can anyone here at the club confirm that?’ Lorimer asked.

Kennedy merely shook his head. Then the chairman’s gaze looked beyond Lorimer, making the policeman turn around. There, through the obscure glass panel of his office door, was the shadow of a figure. Neither man spoke, fully expecting the person to knock and come in. But instead, the shadow shifted and Lorimer glanced at the chairman who simply shrugged.

‘Whoever it was will come back if they want to see me,’ he said. ‘Now, if you have no further questions, I really have rather a lot to do.’ Kennedy looked down at his desk and rustled the papers as if to make his point.

‘Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch if there are any more developments.’ And with that, Lorimer stood up. Kennedy remained where he was, not deigning to show the chief inspector out.

Once out in the corridor, Lorimer looked around to see who had been waiting to speak to the Kelvin chairman but the place was deserted and even Marie McPhail’s tiny office was empty. With a twist to his mouth, Lorimer started for the stairs. He didn’t trust Kennedy but did that mean he was a cold-blooded killer? And what on earth would he have to gain from losing yet another player?

Maybe it was time to speak to Donnie Douglas’s teammates. And maybe they’d have some notion of where the mid-fielder had gone.

He’d taken a taxi back to the Division, picked up the Lexus and now Lorimer was heading out of the city towards the leafy suburbs of Milngavie and Bearsden. Behind him the city shimmered in the heat, the grey silhouettes of high-rise flats and church spires hazy and indistinct, the river a winding ribbon separating north from south. Now he was driving down an avenue shaded by mature trees, catching the occasional glimpse of fine houses beyond their front gardens. Purple wisteria tumbled about the arched doorway of one red sandstone mansion, the unmistakable shape of a sleek Jaguar glinted from another driveway. This was one of Glasgow’s most favoured locations, expensive and understated like a sophisticated woman, rubbing shoulders with the country set nearby.

All the players had been picked up and taken to the training ground, and Lorimer could hear shouts from the field as he parked his car outside a modest-looking building with a wooden sign, ‘Kelvin FC’, painted in black on a white background. He walked towards the field, seeing the lads spread out along the width of the playing area, moving in diagonal steps to warm up their muscles. Beyond them he could see a groundsman who was pulling a roller behind him. It wasn’t Albert Little, his territory began and ended at Kelvin Park. These grounds were rented from the local authority and were maintained by a variety of parks department staff.