Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘Och, nothing. Pity we all have to grow up, isn’t it?’ she whispered, nodding towards Stephanie.

‘Aye, sure is,’ her friend replied dryly, ‘but at least you’ve still got a man to go home to. When he’s there, that is.’ Sandie grinned, digging Maggie in the ribs.

Maggie smiled. This was true. Sandie’s messy divorce had left her a bit jaded about men but she had never sought to be other than supportive whenever Maggie moaned about Bill’s long hours in the force. Or was that what she really meant? Was she maybe trying to tell her something quite different?

For a moment Maggie Lorimer sat and thought about the possibility of her husband being unfaithful to her. It happened to other couples. Look at poor Sandie. But that would never happen to her and Bill, would it? A cold worm of fear wriggled somewhere in the pit of her stomach. And with it came a small voice asking the question; how was she ever to find out if he had cheated on her?

JJ pulled the van door shut and clicked the remote locking device. Giving a sigh, he flexed his shoulder muscles and yawned. On the overhead power lines birds swayed in the late-afternoon heat as the breeze lifted them to and fro. A faint mist of brown dust blew over the scrubland on either side of the road where JJ had left the van. Shading his eyes from the sun he gazed out across the prairie grass that stretched for miles until the heat haze made the red hills seem to rise out of a shimmering sea. It was a long time since he’d been out here shooting rabbits and crows, away from the city that had become his natural habitat and erstwhile hunting ground. He was finished with all that now. One last throw of the dice and he could slip away to retire in comfort: somewhere in Florida, maybe. He’d buy a nice beachside property, do a little fishing, watch the sunsets.

His reverie was broken by a voice behind him.

‘Is this where we’re spending the night?’

JJ turned sharply, frowning. He followed the other man’s gaze towards a single storey house at the end of an overgrown path. It was shaded by several live oaks but even through the shadows the place had a beaten, neglected air.

‘Sure.’

‘Not exactly a home-from-home, is it?’

JJ spat onto the dried ground. ‘What d’ya expect?’ he snarled. ‘Five-star hotels or sump’n?’ Then, picking up the bags that he’d dropped by the van, he motioned for his companion to follow him.

‘Every home comfort, wait till you see.’ He nodded, and headed up towards the house.

Behind him the other man hesitated. They’d travelled a long, long way already and his body was aching. A bath and a meal were what he needed right now. Tonight he’d go along with the older man’s wishes, but tomorrow might be a different matter.

Owls screeched outside as the two men settled down by the empty fireside. JJ had proved as good as his word, cooking a scratch meal from stuff he’d emptied out of a grocery sack and finally producing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from a cupboard in the main living room. He’d not spoken a word about the house, but from his easy familiarity with all the kitchen utensils it was obvious to his companion that he knew the place well. The darkness outside and the light from the tablelamp made the house feel as though its walls were wrapping themselves around the two travellers, protecting them from the world outside.

‘Reckon we should make a start,’ JJ began, pointing at the laptop on the table between them. ‘Boot it up, pal.’ He grinned.

Michael Turner blinked as the screen was illuminated. How many days ago had it been since he had sat in his Glasgow office staring at these images? He tried to calculate but his mind slipped into a grey indifference. Being alive was what really mattered now. He risked a glance at the man sitting opposite him. Staying that way might be another thing altogether.

‘Tony Jacobs,’ Lorimer said. ‘That’s right, the bookie.’ He paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘No, there’s no reason to suspect anything illegal,’ he said. ‘Not at this stage, at any rate.’ Lorimer listened then laughed as the voice protested that he had a dirty mind. ‘That’s what they pay me for,’ he retorted and hung up, grinning. He clasped his hands, index fingers resting on his lips as he thought about the process that was now in motion. Forbes Macgregor’s accounting services might be white as the driven snow as far as the Jacobs’ company was concerned but he wasn’t in the business of making assumptions like that. The client records would be examined in detail to see if there had been anything that might link the murder of the bookmaker to Duncan Forbes and Jennifer Hammond.

Solly hadn’t come up with a preliminary report, but that was okay. His methods were slower than those of the police. Lorimer thought of Rosie and Solly. An unlikely couple in many ways, yet their respective jobs demanded the same quality of patience and perseverance. Where the DCI was more inclined to put things into action, the psychologist had a different perspective, his maps and statistics making pictures he could follow in his mind. The first few days of any murder case were crucial before the trail grew cold and the traces were overlaid by numerous contacts.

Today Lorimer was meeting the partners of Forbes Macgregor. He’d toyed with the idea of asking them all to meet here but had decided on balance that their own territory was better: they’d be more inclined to relax in familiar surroundings, if they could relax at all after the events of the last few days. Lorimer nibbled his fingernail. Should he let them know about Michael Turner? Or would his hunch about the missing man being found dead come to pass sooner than he imagined?

Graham West scrolled down the list of emails and stopped as his eye was caught by a familiar name. It couldn’t be. This was surely someone’s idea of a sick joke. Or a virus, maybe? No, they had all the firewalls IT could provide. Nevertheless, his fingers trembled as they moved the mouse and clicked on the line of text.

He read the message three times before printing it off. Somehow he needed to have the thing in his hand, tangible, before it would seem real. Now should he delete it? West felt sweat begin to dampen his palms. He wasn’t that au fait with computer technology to know if this message could be retrieved once he’d sent it spinning into oblivion. Nor was he certain if he should obliterate it. That would prevent any reply, wouldn’t it? And the message very plainly demanded some response.

As West sat staring at the screen his mind was whirling. Was this a hoax? Should he turn it over to the others? Was his passport up to date? This last thought crept in unbidden and Graham West realized he was shivering badly with shock. Not only was he looking at a demand that could break his career but that demand seemed to be coming from beyond the grave.

At last he took a breath and pressed the reply button. With shaking fingers he tapped out the words: give me time.

‘Got a minute, Graham?’ Alec Barr’s head appeared beside the door so suddenly that West’s hand caught the sheaf of papers that had been balancing on top of his intray, sending them tumbling to the floor. Hiding his confusion, he scrambled below the desk, retrieving the scattered documents then stood up, looking at Barr.

‘Something wrong?’ the managing partner asked, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

West’s jaw dropped. How could he — had he been emailed too? ‘I …’ Words failed to issue from his lips and he found himself sitting down, the bunch of papers still clutched in both hands.

‘What’s up, Graham?’ Barr was standing over him now, his brows drawn down.