Alex Gray - The Riverman

His mind wandered fleetingly to Florida and his holiday there with Maggie the previous Christmas. Lorimer glanced at the calendar on his wall. Just ten more weeks and she’d be finished for the session. Ten weeks and he’d whisk them both off to a cottage in Mull. He’d made tentative plans for that already. There was a remote place called Fishnish Bay, several miles from the nearest village. The views across the Sound of Mull to the Morvern hills were spectacular, if his source was to be believed. Three weeks of peace and quiet, and maybe a trip to Iona for good measure. It was a place of ancient pilgrimage with gravestones by the abbey dating back many hundreds of years.

He gave a sigh as he contemplated that other grave, in woods far across the Atlantic. Michael Turner. Strange that he should meet his end in such mysterious circumstances so soon after Duncan Forbes’ death. And could the two possibly be linked? Lorimer shook his head ruefully. Not a chance, he told himself. That was the stuff of Saturday night TV detective fiction. Still, there was something odd about it that made him unsettled.

‘Mr Barr.’ DS Wilson reached out and shook the senior partner’s hand. The firm handshake gave him reassurance that the man was perfectly in control of the current situation.

‘A dreadful tragedy, gentlemen. We can’t begin to tell you what a shock this has been, and coming so hard on the heels of Duncan’s accident.’ Barr shook his head. ‘We hear all about the violence over in the States but never really think anything can happen to someone we know. But that’s the way of things, I suppose,’ he added, looking at Wilson and DC Cameron for assurance.

‘Yes. It always happens to somebody else, doesn’t it?’ Wilson agreed blandly. ‘Now, Mr Barr, what we need to get are some details of Michael Turner’s family. The New York Police Department will naturally be anxious to transfer his remains back home.’

Barr raised his eyebrows and exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know offhand about any family, but this should soon tell you what you need to know.’ Barr turned to his computer and tilted the screen so that his visitors could watch as he brought up a list of personnel. He highlighted Michael Turner’s name, clicked the mouse and both men watched as the screen produced a blank page. Barr frowned, scrolling down then up again, cursing softly under his breath as he tried to locate the dead man’s file.

‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. Seems to have been deleted: some over-zealous admin assistant, no doubt, clearing up records.’ He cursed again. ‘I’ll have their necks for this! Michael Turner is still technically a Forbes Macgregor employee. Oh, hold on,’ he clicked back and forth, trying different files. ‘Maybe he’s simply been transferred to the Kirkby Russell site. That’s our US arm,’ he explained. ‘Where Michael was supposed to be working once he’d left us.’ Barr’s eyes were on the screen but Wilson exchanged looks with the DC, wondering if the senior partner’s eagerness to find the dead man’s details was genuine or not. Would Barr be so conversant with such matters, anyway? Wasn’t this a task for a lesser mortal to deal with: Jennifer Hammond, the human resources person, perhaps? Why all this fuss?

‘I’m sorry.’ Barr turned the screen a fraction more in their direction. ‘This is rather embarrassing. There’s not a thing about Michael anywhere.’

‘Almost as if he’s ceased to exist?’ Cameron suggested quietly, regarding Barr thoughtfully. The other man did not reply but simply stared at the detective constable. ‘Maybe there is a written record?’ Cameron continued.

Barr seemed to come to with a jolt. ‘Yes, of course. Let me show you through to the filing room. Someone there will no doubt be able to help you.’

The filing room consisted of row upon row of pull-out cabinets on wheels. A young woman stood flicking through different drawers, a pencil pushed behind one ear and a sheaf of papers clutched under her arm. She glanced up nervously, her dark fringe almost hiding her eyes as Barr approached.

‘Emma, find Michael Turner’s personnel file for our friends from Strathclyde CID, will you, please?’ Barr took a quick look at his watch then turned to face Wilson. ‘Sorry, Sergeant, must leave you in Emma’s capable hands. Duty calls.’ Then with a quick handshake and a fixed smile, the man was striding back towards his office. Wilson looked after him. Business as normal, he thought. One partner drowned and another employee murdered in suspicious circumstances and yet Alec Barr simply forged ahead with the day-to-day running of his accountancy practice. Was it sheer callousness or did he really have an overweening sense of responsibility?

‘Looks like you’re stuck with us,’ Wilson heard the tall Lewisman say to the young woman.

She smiled back ruefully as if the request was just one more harassment in an already busy day. ‘See what I can do for you. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’ She replaced the papers, slammed shut the cabinet that she had been searching through and walked them both around a corner, stopping at a different cabinet with pink legal ribbons threaded through the handles. They watched as she found the staff files from P to T, her fingers walking through the names.

‘Here we are,’ she said at last. ‘Michael Turner.’ She drew out a buff-coloured file and handed it to Cameron. But even as her fingers felt the slim file, her expression changed. ‘It’s empty,’ she said, face reddening. ‘Mr Barr will kill me!’

‘Really? Why? It’s not your fault,’ Cameron spoke reasonably as they regarded the open folder.

‘But he asked me to find it for you!’ The girl’s voice rose in a wail.

‘So? How can that be a hanging offence?’ Cameron joked.

Emma muttered something under her breath that sounded like ‘You don’t know Mr Barr.’

‘We weren’t meant to hear that,’ Wilson murmured to Cameron, composing his features into a deliberately neutral expression. ‘I’ll take it anyway, Miss …?’

‘Emma. Emma Rogers,’ the girl replied. She handed over the empty file, looking at it with something akin to despair.

‘Any idea where I might find out about Michael Turner’s personnel details, Miss Rogers?’ Wilson asked.

The girl shrugged. ‘Computer records. Or try human resources. They might have a duplicate of this somewhere,’ she replied. ‘I’ll take you along to that department, if you like,’ she offered, leading them away from the filing systems through an open-plan area that looked out over the river and into an adjoining office. ‘Jennifer … oh. Where is she?’ Emma Rogers stood at the office door, the two policemen by her shoulder. ‘God, this place is mad this morning,’ the girl muttered, then walked to the office next to Jennifer Hammond’s.

‘Anyone seen Jennifer?’ she asked. A grey-haired middle-aged man looked up at her from his seat behind a desk.

‘Gone home,’ the man replied shortly. ‘Said she wasn’t feeling well. Why?’

Emma hesitated then turned towards Wilson as if sensing his growing impatience.

‘These gentlemen are from Strathclyde Police, Adrian. They’re looking for Michael Turner’s personnel records and they could be missing from filing. Seems they’ve been deleted from the computer system as well. Any ideas?’

The man got up and came around to where Wilson and Cameron stood in the doorway. ‘Adrian Millhouse. I’m one of Jennifer Hammond’s staff. Just part time, actually.’ The man grinned and thrust out his hand. ‘Should’ve retired ages ago when I gave up accountancy, but couldn’t stay away from the old place,’ he added. ‘You’re looking for young Michael’s files? Can’t say I’d know where to start looking if you’ve already tried filing and IT. Tell you what, let’s have a dekko in Jennifer’s office.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Our Jennifer had a soft spot for Michael,’ he added.