Alex Gray - The Riverman

Michael Turner lay on a bed next to the wall, his hands bound behind him, the red patterned bandana binding his mouth.

‘Feedin’ time,’ JJ told him, kicking shut the door with one foot as he carried the bags towards a table in the centre of the room. There was a moment when their eyes met and JJ hesitated. Then the older man turned away and busied himself emptying the groceries onto the table.

Michael’s nostrils twitched with disgust as he peered through the stifling half-light of dusk. There was no air conditioning and the smell of recently cooked burgers and rancid fat lingered in the room. The driver had gone and he was once more on his side, tied firmly to the bed. There was one window set high in the roof, its glazing criss-crossed with wire mesh. Occasionally a crow would scratch its way over the glass, claws sliding on the surface until it squawked away. There was a constant sound of traffic buzzing outside, sometimes the shriek of a siren. But no emergency services ever came to release Michael from his cell.

At first he had tried to struggle out of his bonds, but as the days passed he became aware of a lethargy coming over him, weakness, he guessed, and muscle fatigue from lack of movement. Self-pity washed over him now as the utter loneliness of his position set in. He’d been astonished at how much he’d welcomed the infrequent visits of his captor, though on reflection he realized that the man represented a chance to sit upright, to eat and, most importantly, to talk.

This time the questioning had been preceded by the man washing his prisoner’s face and hands, tending to his rope burns with a tube of ointment that looked like Savlon. He’d been handed the food and watched carefully as he made some attempt to eat it, his jaws sore where he’d chafed against that stinking red neckerchief. Michael had given up asking why he’d been imprisoned. His questions only met with a stony silence.

At first he had protested, had threatened to invoke the wrath of all the gods at Russell Kirkby and Forbes Macgregor combined, then, as time had passed, he had begun to fear his silent captor and had begged for release. But now there was only a weariness and bewilderment as he sought for answers as to why he had been whisked away from JFK to this stinking hole.

It had been several days since he’d emerged into the cold sunlight of the airport, his face turned up to the patch of sky above the buildings, his blood racing with anticipation. He remembered how he’d felt, proud to be driven in that limo along those massive highways, through the streets with their colourful video screens and flashing lights, buildings towering above him on either side. This was to be his city! He’d be a partner within two years, he’d been assured by Alec Barr. Even Catherine Devoy had taken him aside to give him some friendly advice about his career path. That seemed like another lifetime, that brief glimpse of a future that now looked so remote. Michael shivered despite the cloying warmth of the room.

Today the limo driver had asked him what he was doing in the city, who had sent him, what his bosses wanted of him. Michael had answered everything as truthfully as he could, assured, as only the innocent can be, that the truth would set him free. The man had asked more sinister questions. What had he done to upset his bosses? Then that chilling final question today: who would have wanted him killed?

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Rosie’s voice told him.

‘Try me,’ replied Lorimer.

‘There’s no trace of alcohol in the bloodstream of the deceased.’

Lorimer was silent for a moment, absorbing the pathologists’s words.

‘So, what-?’

‘So I told them to run a few more tests. There was something unusual in the print-offs that I thought worth following up. So they did, and guess what we found?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Gamma-hydroxybutrate.’

Lorimer whistled through his teeth. ‘How much? Enough to kill him?’

‘Enough to make Duncan Forbes appear very drunk fairly quickly. He’d have experienced physical disequilibrium and perhaps feelings of illness.’

Lorimer nodded as she spoke. Gamma-hydroxybutrate, or GHB, was a street drug that had been filtering into Glasgow all too often in recent years. There had been several cases of date-rape: one such had resulted in a fatal accident inquiry when a young woman had died as a result of being given an overdose of the drug.

‘Would he have been able to jump over the railings?’

‘That’s for your lot to find out,’ Rosie retorted, then added, ‘but it might have been difficult for him to get over them by himself. He was a big man and the effect of the GHB might have taken longer to achieve. He’d be bleary-eyed and unsteady on his feet, given the quantity we found.’

‘Would you stand up in court and say that?’

‘If I had to. Why?’

Lorimer tapped a pen against his teeth. He’d dismissed the death as accidental due to excess alcohol in the bloodstream and was expecting the report to the Fiscal would say just as much. Now Rosie Fergusson’s revelation had turned this into something quite different.

‘Maybe we will be looking at this as a murder inquiry,’ he told her.

‘Hold on to those Crowne Plaza tapes.’ Lorimer nodded to DC Cameron as he passed his desk. ‘We’re not done with this case yet.’

The Lewisman looked up at his boss, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

‘Cause of death unknown. For now .’ Lorimer stressed the last word deliberately. ‘High doses of GHB in the bloodstream. No alcohol,’ he added tersely. ‘So we’re still treating this as a suspicious death.’

‘Not suicide?’ Cameron asked.

Lorimer shook his head. ‘Can’t see it somehow, unless he was trying to dull his own senses by taking the drug before he tipped himself over the edge. Doesn’t seem likely from what little we know of him. But that will have to change, won’t it? We need to know a lot more about Duncan Forbes.’

‘So you want me to do a background check?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Find out what you can about the firm, Forbes Macgregor. See if there was anything dirty going on. Anything that would have him desperate enough to take his own life.’

‘But you don’t really think he did, do you, sir?’ Cameron looked Lorimer directly in the eye.

‘No. I think there was someone else involved.’ He shook a small object in his hand. ‘That’s why I’m having this analysed,’ he said, glancing towards the sound tape that held the voice of their mystery caller. ‘See what our other experts can come up with,’ he added wryly.

It was after eight when Lorimer eventually locked the car and strolled up towards his own front door. As he turned the key in the lock he could hear music coming from the sitting room. Maggie was home. He grinned to himself. Coming home since that wonderful day when his wife had arrived back in February had been a joy compared to the long months when she had been teaching overseas.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, how’s my man? Ready for some dinner?’

Lorimer chuckled. Maggie looked out from the kitchen and waved a wooden spoon in her husband’s direction. Something smelled good.

‘You bet. Haven’t had anything since breakfast.’

‘Not even time for one of Sadie Dunlop’s famous Danish pastries in the canteen?’

‘Nope. Too busy working.’

‘Hm. Why does that not surprise me? Mitchison making you decimate what remains of the rainforests, then?’ she asked wryly.

‘Actually, no.’ Lorimer had made his way to the kitchen where Maggie was stirring spices into what he hoped was chicken curry. His arms encircled her waist and gave a squeeze. ‘Working on a possible murder case,’ he murmured, nuzzling her neck. He felt her sigh as she leaned back against his body, a gesture that held the promise of good things to come.