Alex Gray - The Riverman

Since the news of his promotion, Michael hadn’t stopped for a moment: packing, sorting through his affairs and leaving the flat in the hands of the property agent. Then last night he’d spent some sweet hours with Jenny. He’d made promises they both knew would never be kept, but he’d made them anyway, between kisses that spoke only of here and now. He’d woken alone, the empty space beside him a sobering reminder of all he was leaving behind. No voice had disturbed him these past few days with the grim news about Duncan Forbes. Even the answering machine in his flat had remained strangely silent, though Michael had been far too busy to notice.

As the seat-belt sign blinked off, Michael pressed the recliner button and settled back to enjoy the flight. He’d tucked a paperback and the Gazette into the seat pocket in front of him and now pondered which of the two to choose first. The paperback won. The Gazette , with that little news item about a man drowned in the river Clyde, remained folded between the in-flight magazine and a bottle of Highland Spring.

It would be several days before Michael Turner learned about the death of his mentor and by that time he would be in no position to reveal the secrets he knew.

‘Liz, it’s me, Catherine.’

There was a sound of heavy breathing, then a click as the line went dead.

Catherine Devoy held the handset at arm’s length, puzzled, as if it had performed some obscene trick. Then she shrugged, replaced the telephone and lifted it again. Just as she was about to press the redial button, she paused. Maybe she had misdialled. Maybe that wasn’t Liz on the other end of the line. Just to be on the safe side, Catherine redialled the number and waited as the phone rang on and on. She sighed. There was no one home. That first call must have been a wrong number. Oh, well, she’d try again later on. There was no way she was going to duck out of being supportive to Duncan’s widow. No way at all. Alec had been adamant on that point.

Liz sank back into her chair, trembling. What had she done? Catherine was just trying to be friendly, wasn’t she? Then why on earth had she bottled out of speaking to the woman? She caught sight of the photograph on the table by her side. It was a holiday snap of Duncan and herself up at the cottage, his arms full of brushwood for the fire, her hair blowing in the wind, both of them laughing. Her eyes filled again with the tears that just kept on coming. He had loved her; she knew it in her heart. So why was she feeling such pain, such terrible doubt? And why had she just cut Catherine off? Was every other woman in Duncan’s life going to be a potential mistress? Liz dropped her head into her hands, weeping freely through her fingers. Not Catherine, surely not Catherine, a voice drummed in her head.

‘Miss Devoy.’ A voice at her door made Catherine look up. It was Zoe Nicholl, Duncan’s secretary.

‘We’ve had a message from Kirkby Russell,’ the girl said.

‘Oh?’ Catherine cocked her head to one side. Kirkby Russell was Forbes Macgregor’s US partnership. Things had come a long way since the days when the practice had been run by Duncan’s father. Nowadays there were offices spread across the globe and Forbes Macgregor was a serious player on the international accountancy stage.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘I’m not sure,’ the girl began. ‘It’s about Michael. They want to know when he’s arriving.’

Catherine Devoy frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, then, realizing how foolish the question sounded, added, ‘There must be some mistake. Michael was being met …’ she looked at her slim gold wristwatch, ‘yesterday afternoon about three o’ clock their time.’

‘Maybe there’s been a hold-up of some kind. Isn’t there a baggage handlers’ strike on?’

‘Yes, but that wouldn’t affect Michael’s flight. He was flying BA. There must be some mix-up,’ she said, dismissively. ‘Check our emails to them with the ETA and flight numbers. They should have been sent within the last week.’

‘Okay. Will do.’ Zoe turned on her heel, closing the door behind her.

Catherine stared at the door. Something churned in her stomach. The acid reflux had worsened recently, a sure sign of stress. But Catherine Devoy was adept at hiding anything that would reveal her inner turmoil. She’d had to be, particularly in the last few months. Still, there was something disquieting about this little incident. Why had Kirkby Russell failed to make contact with Michael Turner? Surely he had arrived? And if not, what the hell would they all do about him now that he was out of their reach?

It had not gone according to plan.

JJ swore softly under his breath as he lugged the heavy bag of groceries up the concrete steps to the loft room. Carting food for a mark wasn’t in his job description: blowing him away, yes, but keeping him here, whining every time he showed up, no siree. If only he’d kept his mouth shut, then none of this would have happened. JJ recalled the conversation in the limo after he’d picked up the Scotsman from JFK.

‘Which part of the country you belong to?’ he’d asked. An innocent enough question, surely? It was just one little hike up from discussing the Yankees, which he usually did when softening them up before the kill. The guy had gone on at length about the beauties of Scotland until JJ changed the conversation.

‘What line a business you in?’

Now the talk was all about the guy’s new job. JJ listened, prompting only when he needed to hear more. What had brought him out here? Why hadn’t he stayed on in Bonnie Scotland?

Then the story had come tumbling out, the confession that didn’t matter a damn, you were only telling it to some dumb ass of a taxi driver you’d never see in your life again. JJ knew that was how their minds worked.

Then JJ had found himself having to take out the folded bandana that he kept in the top pocket of his blue uniform jacket. The sweat trickled down the side of his face and as he dabbed at it, he took a surreptitious glance at the passenger in the back of the limo. He could take a risk or he could carry out his orders as usual. The thought of the consequences should his plan fail made him shudder. This guy was his passport to the good times, that was for sure. And nobody would suspect him. All they wanted was a body.

The rest of the journey had passed in a blur as JJ turned the limo away from Jamaica Bay along the highway that led into the city. He’d faked a grin as the guy exclaimed over his first sight of Brooklyn Bridge and even given him a spiel about what a great place he was coming to. His passenger had never batted an eyelid as they’d driven through Holland Tunnel then into the maze of city streets; the guy had been too busy turning his head this way and that, everything new to him, everything unfamiliar. JJ had kept that smile on his face; it was all one to the poor sap whether he was in downtown Manhattan or in any one of the ghettos that could conceal them until the driver had decided what to do.

JJ’s instructions had been, as always, to do the job quickly and efficiently. A clean single shot followed by a trip out to the backwoods with a sack and shovel; that was the customary procedure. He’d pick up the rest of his fee when the limo was dropped off at the valet service depot and that would be that. No remorse, no questioning a conscience long-dulled by routine executions. JJ was a consummate businessman when it came to dispatching his victims.

The man grumbled to himself as he reached the top step and put down the grocery sacks. Below him the sounds of distant sirens mingled with the screams of kids playing in a waste lot on the corner. He searched in his trouser pocket for the key then fitted it into the padlock, conscious of a stirring from within the room as he pushed open the door.