Alex Gray - The Riverman

The taxi deposited him at the Crowne Plaza Hotel and Solly shrugged his coat closer around him as the wind cut across the river and blew directly into his face. Despite the April sun it was bitterly cold. What on earth must it have been like on that fateful night? Solly imagined the sudden splash of a man’s body entering the icy water: surely he’d have flapped about, calling for help? He’d been a strong swimmer, but that may have counted for nothing given his heavy winter clothing and the strong currents. And if the GHB had so dulled his senses that he’d been unable to make himself heard? There had been a howling wind that night too, according to the riverman’s minutely detailed logbook.

The psychologist walked slowly towards the bushes next to the cycle path. At one point the pathway curved out of sight of the hotel, its strip of pale concrete running all the way along the north side of the riverbank towards the city. Already many eyes had scoured the area in a search for clues as to the exact place where Duncan Forbes had fallen into the river. Did he fall or was he pushed? Solly’s own words came back to him, now utterly devoid of humour. The path wound around the Crowne Plaza shrubbery and took him to the main road leading out of the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre complex. For a few moments the psychologist stood pondering the ways in and out of the area, then he made up his mind and strode towards the City Inn, a more modest hotel but one that intrigued Solly. From where he stood he could see that there was an extended deck reaching out from the restaurant and jutting right over the river. Above it, the Squinty Bridge traced its white arc against the grey skies.

The revolving glass doors admitted Solly into the bright hotel foyer. To one side he could see a figure behind a coffee machine, its hiss of steam creating a halo around the man’s head. A few people sat at tables drinking coffee and talking in lowered voices. It was close enough to the various offices that surrounded this part of Finnieston for people to choose the hotel’s coffee bar for their afternoon break, he supposed.

The barman looked up as Solly approached: his smile switched on like an automatic sensor but the psychologist could see that the man’s eyes were glazed with boredom.

‘One pot of tea, please. Do you have any herbal?’

‘Sure. Green tea, camomile and ginger, strawberry, peppermint or blackcurrant,’ the man replied, his Aussie accent rolling over the choices of teas as if they were all so tantalizing that Solly might have difficulty in making his choice.

‘Camomile, please. And can I take it outside?’

The Aussie’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Pretty cold for that, mate,’ he shrugged, ‘but it’s okay with me. Chairs and tables are there if you want.’

Solly glanced at the exterior deck that was not entirely empty; one person at least had braved the April winds, muffled and hooded in a pale-blue fleece.

‘Does the hotel keep this section open all year round?’ he asked, looking towards the river as the man fetched a small silver teapot from a shelf at his side.

‘Yeah, it’s kind of our trademark, y’know. Ever since the Gazette did that big piece on waterfront restaurants everybody seems keen to venture out there.’

‘Even at night?’

The man grinned. ‘Especially at night. We’ve overhead heaters and canopies to keep the worst of the weather off. Folk seem to like it, y’know, the glitter on the water and all that.’

Solly nodded his thanks and ventured out onto the bleached wooden decking that stretched out around the restaurant area, tray in both hands, briefcase under his arm. The figure on the deck did not move as he paused behind her, wondering which table to select. He took in her polar fleece, its hood pulled over the woman’s head to keep out the cold, though strands of long blonde hair obscured her face, tugged by the wind. Then he noticed her ungloved hands busy scribbling on a notepad. Solly nodded to himself. A reporter of some sort, perhaps? But why sit out here when inside would have been adequate for her purposes? As he moved nearer, curious to see what she was writing, he caught sight of a fragment of a sentence that might have been poetry, but at the same moment the woman looked up. For an instant she frowned as if trying to place Solly in her mind. Had she recognized him? Then, giving her head a tiny shake, she returned to her writing, ignoring the psychologist completely.

Solly placed his tray on a table far enough away to give the woman some privacy then sat down to contemplate his surroundings. From here he could see the pathway and the line of bushes that broke the worst of the river’s breeze. Anyone sitting on this deck had a good view of the river. Had Lorimer’s team come here to ask questions? Solly did not recall a mention of the City Inn from the bulk of notes that comprised the senior investigating officer’s reports. If anybody had been here that night … Solly sipped his tea then turned and looked back into the coffee bar. Perhaps a few words with the bored Australian might liven up both their days.

‘Yeah, read all about it. Poor bloke. Drunk, wasn’t he?’ The barman shook his head as Solly gave a non-committal shrug. ‘We had some people staying here. There are always the stragglers who check in for the night. Been to the Armadillo and it’s too far to go home. Can’t afford the Crowne Plaza prices so they come here.’ The man polished a row of wine glasses absently as he spoke.

‘Did Strathclyde Police ask you anything about the incident?’ Solly enquired politely.

‘Me?’ The Australian looked surprised. ‘Why’d they ask me anything?’

Solly smiled benignly. ‘Perhaps to confirm if any of the residents had been at the Crowne Plaza earlier? Maybe some of your guests had been there earlier in the evening? Checking out accommodation?’ Solly replied, following up the barman’s own line of thought.

‘Oh, you’d need to ask at reception. That’s not my bag. What’s your interest in this anyway, mate?’ A frown appeared between the man’s dark eyes and Solly detected a hardening in his expression. With a small sigh of resignation he drew a business card out of his coat pocket and handed it across the counter.

The Australian’s lips moved imperceptibly as he read the card.

‘I help the police with their investigations from time to time,’ Solly explained, shrugging again as if to say it was no big deal.

‘Doctor Brightman, eh? Psychologist.’ The man nodded then pursed his lips.

Solly smiled. The card could be useful. It allayed any suspicions and gave him a little bit of authority to ask questions. And he could see that this man was suddenly impressed by the letters after his name. Still, he would have to return with one of Strathclyde’s officers in tow if he wanted to find out about the hotel’s guest list and whether it included anyone who had seen Duncan Forbes walking unsteadily along that footpath several nights ago.

It had been a long day. Solly pulled the cupboard door open and hung his coat carefully on its customary hanger. His stomach had been rumbling noticeably for several hours, reminding him of a missed lunch and a belated dinner. He really should make the effort to prepare a meal even if it was only a can of soup and some bread.

Eventually Solly was wiping the soup mug with the final bit of crust and savouring his last mouthful. With a sigh he put down the mug and cleaned his mouth and beard with a checked napkin. That was better. The intense cold that had penetrated his bones for most of the day was finally loosening its grip. For a while the psychologist simply stared into space. An observer might have thought that he was practically asleep, the long eyelashes half-covering his dark eyes, but Solly was not falling into a dream. He seemed to be staring into the night sky beyond his room but what he was actually trying to see were pathways up and down the river Clyde; pathways that made sense to a killer.