Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘To some extent. But not so that Miss Hammond couldn’t recognize it.’

‘Maybe she’s heard the same voice having hysterics before?’

‘Could be. But unless we put extra pressure on her she’s not going to tell us.’

Alistair Wilson shrugged. ‘What now, then?’

‘Now we keep digging around at Forbes Macgregor.’

Jennifer Hammond was humming along to the television’s jingle when the doorbell rang. Her visitor was early, but that was okay. She’d been ready for ages. The wine was cooling in the fridge and she’d put out some low calorie nibbles on a Chinese dish on the glass table. She flicked her red hair back from her face as she walked along the corridor, aware of a new spring to her step. Some serious retail therapy had lightened her mood after that policeman’s earlier visit and now she was going to compound it with her well-thought-out scheme.

‘Hi, come on in. Let me take your coat.’ She smiled at her visitor, noting the water droplets on the raincoat as she took it through to her bedroom. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she called. ‘Help yourself to some Chablis. It’s in the fridge and I’ve left glasses on the worktop.’

Jennifer glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe. Her face was flushed with excitement and anticipation. Nothing could go wrong, surely? She’d thought out all the angles. With a sidelong smirk at herself, the redhead flicked off the light switch and sauntered back into the sitting room. Her visitor had drawn the cork and filled two long-stemmed glasses already, Jennifer noted with satisfaction.

‘Cheers,’ she said, raising a glass and swallowing a welcome mouthful. ‘Happy days,’ she added, sniggering inwardly at the irony of her words. If all went according to plan there would be plenty of happy days for Jennifer Hammond, but she was not so sure that the same would apply to the person who sat opposite watching her thoughtfully.

The nausea hit her when she tried to stand up. Okay, she’d managed to polish off the best part of two bottles of wine. Her visitor had been more abstemious, having to drive, but Jennifer was used to a few glasses. Shouldn’t be feeling like this. Maybe coming down with a bug, she thought as she tried to steady herself. She sat down again heavily, her hand brushing the edge of the coffee table.

What if …? The sudden thought made her grab her mobile. The names blurred as she scrolled down the list. Blinking hard, Jennifer saw his name and pressed the green button. For a moment the ringtone was all she heard then another wave of nausea came over her and the mobile dropped from her fingers.

The Jack Vettriano print on her wall seemed to be moving as if a wind had caught it from behind, its very shadows seeping out of the frame as Jennifer swayed on her way to the bathroom.

Light smashed against her eyeballs as she pulled the light cord and she just made it to the wash basin in time as her stomach contents heaved their way upwards. Staggering now, she turned on the cold tap then put out her hand to swish away the disgusting mess blocking the basin. But at that very moment a different sensation swept over her and she felt her legs give way.

There was no sudden intimation of mortality, simply a fading away of her senses as Jennifer Hammond closed her eyes on the world for the last time.

Davie McLaren was furious. Why couldn’t the factor have sent someone round immediately? God knows they charged enough in monthly service fees. Meantime he’d had to wait over an hour while his bathroom carpet became more and more sodden underfoot and the ceiling threatened to give way. Knocking on the door of upstair’s flat had met with nil response. The silly cow had gone out and left her bath running, by the looks of things.

The footballer banged his fist against the telephone table, making the instrument jump with a sudden tinkle. Damn and blast! He’d wanted to soak in a bath and ease away all the sore places that hurt after today’s training session but couldn’t risk even stepping into the bathroom lest the whole ceiling came crashing down. At least he could use the loo in the ensuite and have a shower if he really felt like it. But Davie McLaren had wanted to have a bath and the young midfielder had become used to having what he wanted at the click of his fingers. He’d give that stuck-up redhead a real piece of his mind when she came back.

‘What’s wrong?’ Davie opened the door a little wider to admit the woman he recognized from the factor’s office. She was chalk-white and trembling.

‘Can I use your phone?’ she asked, not waiting for Davie’s reply but walking straight towards the telephone on the hall table. ‘My mobile’s on the blink,’ she added, quickly dialing three numbers.

Davie started to speak but shut up immediately as the woman shot him a look, waved her hand at him and spoke into the telephone.

‘Police, please, and an ambulance as well. Eighty Riverside Gardens. Yes.’ She paused and her eyes met Davie’s as she continued to talk to the emergency operator. ‘Linda Roberts. I’m here from Treeby-Willis on behalf of the downstairs tenant. Water was coming from the flat above. I … I found a woman’s body in the bathroom.’ There was another pause as Davie stood, mesmerized by what he was hearing. ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s dead.’

Lorimer watched as the photographer flashed shot after shot of the mess in Jennifer Hammond’s bathroom. The woman’s body was slumped between the bath and the wash basin, her red hair falling over her face. Someone had turned off the tap and made a start at clearing the vomit into evidence bags. The smell emanating from the tiny room was sweet and rotten. The stench of vomit was infectious; you couldn’t help but want to add your own stomach contents to those already splattered by a victim. The scene of crime lads were impervious to it all, going through the motions of collecting traces and investigating the woman’s last physical movements with nary a qualm.

Lorimer retreated into the sitting room. It was only this morning that he’d stood here contemplating the scenery from this window. Now the midnight view was all stars of brightness and blinking headlights as the traffic still sped over the black arc of the Kingston Bridge. He could see the reflections on the water in a pattern of pale crescent moons as the river continued to move below his gaze.

He turned back and looked intently at the room. It was much the same as it had been earlier; a stylish, comfortable room with its central table and that single wine glass that would be taken away for examination. He wandered into the small galley kitchen. Two empty wine bottles sat on the counter beside a bottle opener. There were scraps of dark green foil pushed to one side that matched the necks of the wine bottles. So she’d been on a binge, had she? Lorimer tried to imagine the red-haired woman drowning her sorrows about Michael Turner, but somehow the scene refused to equate with several designer carrier bags that he’d found shoved in a hall cupboard. The receipts were still inside, showing that Jennifer Hammond had enjoyed a shopping spree a few hours before her death. Binge-drinking herself to the stage where she lost control was not the impression he’d had of this young woman. She was much more sophisticated than that. Much more. Drugs, then? a little voice suggested.

Her bedroom was past the bathroom and Lorimer had to squeeze his way carefully past the white-suited officers. Like the sitting room, the walls were decorated in pale gold with a rich amber fleur-de-lis pattern bordering the plain coving. But there any resemblance to the other room ended. Jennifer Hammond’s king-sized bed was swathed in a rich, dark red satin. Tasselled and frilled pillows embroidered with red and gold oriental designs had been grouped at the head of the bed below a sweeping canopy. Lorimer looked up at the ceiling, almost expecting to see an oval mirror but there was none. Despite this, the room still had the air of a bordello. An ancient hookah stood in one corner of the room, several small brass bowls placed artfully around its base. Lorimer sniffed the air but could detect nothing. The old pipe was purely for decorative purposes, then. Like the silk shawl that was fastened to the wall opposite the window, pinned somehow to make its pattern of peacocks fan their tails in three perfect arcs. Its fringes whispered in the draught of air coming from an underfloor heating vent.