Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Lorimer watched his friend scurrying towards the taxi that would take him back to Rosie’s bedside, then turned away from the window. Things looked brighter now, especially as the team had done some serious work trawling the local internet cafes in and around Glasgow. Cafe Source, a twenty-four-hour establishment in Glasgow’s West End, had been located as the most likely origin of both the website threat and the bogus email to Tam Baillie. But it was unlikely that any of its staff would be able to identify one out of their numerous casual customers. If he had a suspect then they could at least show a photograph. Lorimer clenched his jaw. Pat Kennedy had come to the top of his list more than once, though what his motivation would be for killing these two men was something that gave him pause. It was just the man’s manner, the belligerent, bullying arrogance that seemed to suggest he was capable if not of murder then of having it arranged. An organised mind, Solly had said to them. But did the organised mind belong to the person who had pulled these triggers or to someone who was organised enough to have a professional hit man?

Lorimer considered the reports lying on his desk, the results of today’s actions. They’d begun to look at the football club’s financial background. Was there something in this pile that might help to heave the case out of this slough of despond? Lorimer flicked through the papers until he found what he wanted. Yes. Here it was. Not just a list of the club’s directors, who included a well-known Glasgow solicitor and a property developer, but the major shareholders as well. He sat back and held the page out at arm’s length, emitting a low whistle. So, Barbara Kennedy was one of the directors and held the club’s controlling interest. He cast his mind back to the red-haired woman at Kelvin Park. His policeman’s nose told him that there was some amorous entanglement going on behind Mrs Kennedy’s back. Kennedy was a fool to risk his wife’s ire if she really held the club’s purse strings. But maybe taking risks was part of the attraction. He remembered the scrawny woman behind that glass-fronted office. She wasn’t exactly a beauty. But perhaps she had other attributes.

A knock on his door ended that particular train of thought and he saw that DC John Weir, the latest addition to the team, stood uncertainly on the threshold.

‘Sir?’ His eyebrows were raised in supplication.

‘Come in, Weir, what is it?’

Encouraged, the DC entered the room and handed a file to Lorimer. ‘I didn’t manage to finish it in time, sir. Had to wait for the bank to get back to me with details.’

Lorimer noticed a tinge of pink flushing the young man’s cheeks. He was certainly excited about something.

‘It’s the report into Norman Cartwright’s financial affairs, sir. That’s it all there,’ Weir added unnecessarily.

Lorimer skimmed through the report, turning over the yellow Post-It notes that were obviously the Detective Constable’s preferred way of highlighting something of significance.

‘Hm!’ Lorimer’s eyes widened as he came upon the reason why Weir had emphasised one particular yellow sticker with a double asterisk and an arrow. There, in a long line of figures, was a sum of money far exceeding any other deposit in the late Norman Cartwright’s bank account. ‘Any idea where the money came from?’ Lorimer asked.

‘No, sir, but I found out that it was paid in cash.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds in cash ?’

‘We think it might be a win on the horses, sir. He had an account with Ladbrokes.’

Weir came alongside Lorimer. ‘If you look back a couple of pages — there.’ He pointed to another highlighted figure.

‘That’s exactly-’

‘-the sum he was overdrawn, six weeks previous to his death,’ Weir finished dramatically.

Lorimer scowled at him. Finishing a senior officer’s sentences wasn’t good form and Weir had better learn that fast. Still, the new recruit to CID seemed to have turned up a few interesting facts about the referee.

‘And he managed to find enough cash to balance his account just days before his murder.’

‘What if …?’ Weir began then stopped, unsure if he had already allowed his enthusiasm to run away with him.

‘Let’s hear it,’ Lorimer told him, though his own mind had already leapt to a somewhat unsavoury conclusion.

Weir sat down in the vacant chair opposite his DCI. ‘Well, what if he’d been bribed to throw the match?’

‘By Queen of the South?’ Lorimer laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No, by someone who’s been trying to bring down the club. D’you not remember how they finished at the end of last season? Baz Thomson just gave away that penalty,’ Weir protested with a vehemence that betokened the true football supporter.

Lorimer nodded. It had been a strange end to a season full of surprises, not least Kelvin’s relegation. Gretna’s meteoric rise into the Scottish Premier League had only been eclipsed by Saint Mirren winning the Scottish Cup in extra time after a battle against Inverness Caledonian Thistle. That the Old Firm of Rangers and Celtic had suddenly lost their stranglehold on Scottish football was a favourite topic among sports pundits; Kelvin’s demise from top-level Scottish football was a nine-day wonder in comparison.

‘D’you think Thomson could have thrown the game, sir?’ Weir asked, meeting Lorimer’s gaze.

‘Well, that’s something we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?’ Lorimer replied drily. ‘Why don’t you follow this one up yourself? Bring him in for questioning.’

Weir’s eyes lit up. ‘Me?’ he asked, an expression of astonished delight on his face.

‘Aye, you, Detective Constable Weir,’ Lorimer answered, trying hard not to smile.

The young man was obviously eager to show his promotion out of uniform had been justified and there was something about this new recruit that reminded Lorimer of himself at that age. ‘Just remember all those interview techniques they taught you at Tulliallan.’

‘That’s him!’

The police patrol car changed lanes swiftly and turned left into the housing estate, following the progress of a young man dressed in a shabby track-suit.

Turning his head, Donnie Douglas saw the two officers staring at him from the car; one had his arm out of the open window and was signalling at him to come over to them. For a moment Donnie hesitated. His instinct was to make a run for it through the maze of council houses and try to lose the police car. But something stopped him. He was tired of running. Tired of fearing the consequences of his actions. And somehow, these two faces looking up at him from the car were less intimidating than he had expected, in fact the one beckoning him over was smiling in an encouraging way. With a sigh, Donnie turned around and headed towards the car.

‘Want a lift back to Glasgow?’ the smiling one asked.

‘Aye, why not,’ Donnie replied and with a shrug meant to convey his indifference, he heaved his knapsack into the back seat and slung himself in beside it.

Lorimer unwrapped a second sherbet lemon and popped it into his mouth. It felt like a reward for a job well done, though truthfully DC Cameron’s long hours had been behind this success. The young Lewisman was straightening his tie and looking determined as he headed towards the interview room where the Kelvin footballer sat sweating in the afternoon sunshine. He’d been picked up in a housing scheme in Garelochhead, not far from the Ministry of Defence’s nuclear naval base. Watching Niall Cameron walk purposefully out of sight, Lorimer mentally wished him luck.

When he entered the room with Detective Inspector Grant, Cameron knew what was expected of him. The DI had chosen to let Cameron begin the interview, not just deferring to his extensive knowledge of football but because he had put in so much effort at finding the errant player.