Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘That you away, sir?’ The receptionist helped Lorimer into his coat, holding it up high. He smiled as he bent his knees to let her slide it over his shoulders. ‘Mind how ye go, now,’ the woman added sternly, her eye suddenly on Solly who was occupied with winding his scarf back around his neck. There was a fearless quality about this wee person, Lorimer thought as he walked out of the office. She’d be polite enough but stand no nonsense from anybody, even a senior officer from Strathclyde Police.

‘That’s who she reminds me of,’ he told Solly. ‘Put her in a white overall and pull back that grey hair from her face and she’d be a dead ringer for Sadie Dunlop,’ he exclaimed.

‘Ah yes,’ Solly’s eyes twinkled in recognition, ‘the scourge of the police canteen.’ He looked at his companion. Lorimer seemed animated suddenly. Had he seen all the signs Solly hoped he had? Back in that room there had been enough material to create a whole term’s worth of seminars on behavioural psychology. Some of the partners had said little but their unspoken language had told the psychologist much, much more.

Glasgow on an April evening was not the grey post-industrial city many people might imagine, thought Solly as he turned from Great Western Road towards the park that would lead to his home. Music floated out from the open doors of a church on the corner, something hymn-like, he thought. Then the sounds were overlaid by the liquid notes of a bird, making the psychologist look upwards. The bird sat on a rhododendron branch, its neck stretched out as the song emanated from its throat. A thrush, Solly decided, noting the creamy yellow breast with its pattern of dark-brown speckles. He passed two schoolgirls who were deep in conversation, utterly oblivious to the free performance being given from the branches above. Each of them wore a black cotton skirt and T-shirt, no sign of a jacket or cardigan to cover their bare arms. Young ones never felt the cold, his mother used to say. He smiled, remembering her voice. A Jewish mother who had never scolded, always encouraged her brood, Ma Brightman’s home had been the magnet for all their friends. Solly smiled again. She’d have stopped to listen to that bird, too.

There was something in the air, Solly told himself as he left the thrush singing its melody over again. Now that the days were lengthening and there was enough warmth to allow these girls to cast off their winter garments, there was a sense of impending pleasures to come: summer was only a few weeks off now that the final term had begun. In London the deckchairs might already be out in Hyde Park. April was a strange month up here. One day could be warm enough to encourage those clouds of mayflies that hovered over the river Kelvin, Solly thought, observing their mad dance. The next day could see snow or hail blotting out the hills he loved to see from his windows high above the city. It was a place of many contrasts, Solly had found, and he liked that.

The psychologist stopped by the front door of the elegant terrace and glanced down at the park below. Already the spring flowers were carpeting the edges of Kelvin Way and the formal beds beside the Art Gallery. He breathed in deeply, glad to be alive on a day like this. Anyone seeing the beatific smile half-hidden below his beard would have known that this was a man at peace with himself.

Rosie was singing along to something on the radio as he stepped into the flat and he watched her for a moment before she turned and came swiftly towards him and flung herself into his arms. Solly sighed happily as he enveloped her in a hug, her blonde head snuggled neatly against his shoulder. Wasn’t it funny how he had never missed having a woman in his life? And yet now he could not imagine his world being complete without Rosie in it.

It was dark outside, the uncurtained windows showing a starless sky, as Solly lay on his back, pondering the events of his day. Beside him Rosie’s warm body snuggled under the duvet, an invisible but vital presence. After his meeting with Lorimer he had been to see the factor of Riverside Gardens, asking to see the flat where Jennifer Hammond had lived and died. There he had stood, silently watching the cars go by across the bridge, a never-ending stream of humanity on endless journeys. The flat itself had depressed him. Empty of any life, the leftovers of her existence seemed to be mocking the world that the young victim had enjoyed. As he lay in the darkness, Solly recalled the sleek kitchen with its functional machines. The fridge was still to be emptied of its pitiful contents: a solitary croissant shedding its crumbs onto the bare shelves below, a half-packet of butter past its sell-by date and a couple of ready meals. Solly had looked intently at the dead woman’s choice of foodstuffs. Salmon in a white wine sauce and a pack of sushi: what did that tell him? he’d shrugged. A predilection for fishy foods wouldn’t reveal much in the way of her character, but it did show that she was someone who probably ate out a great deal and enjoyed the finer things of life. Twin circles on the bottle container of the refrigerator made Solly look closer. The ridged patterns resembled the underside of champagne bottles. There were traces that looked like dried spilt milk, yellowing under the darker patterns, and bits of greenery had been caught between the glass shelving and a grubby salad basket. Jennifer Hammond had not been a domestic goddess.

Looking through the dead woman’s wardrobe had revealed numerous boxes of high-heeled designer shoes; he’d seen others shoved in a jumble of handbags and hatboxes below the rows upon rows of clothes that hung uselessly from their double rails. She’d had a love for colour, a zest for living, he could see that easily from the bedroom’s decor alone. But she’d been a woman in a hurry, never spending enough time on her own to tidy or sort things out. Rosie was inclined to be messy around the flat, rushing off to work and leaving their bed unmade, but this woman’s flat had been a temporary refuge, not a home. Even the exotically furnished boudoir (for there was no other word for it, Solly told himself) had the appearance of a carefully designed place to make love rather than somewhere to rest and relax.

She’d been careless with her possessions but had she also been careless with herself? Solly thought not. There was a lavishness in her home that spoke of a person who had relished her life, not discarded it in an impulsive moment. No. Jennifer Hammond had been murdered, of that Solly was certain. But as he looked into the patches of cloud that were scudding across the night sky he could not begin to imagine who would have wanted to kill the vivacious redhead. Nor why.

‘Right, any feedback from yesterday’s meeting?’ Lorimer’s voice could not hide its eagerness, a fact that amused the psychologist. The DCI would love an instant answer if it could be somehow magically conjured out of the air. But Solomon Brightman did not work like that.

‘Not yet.’ He chuckled, imagining the detective’s crestfallen expression. ‘But I do have some observations written down about each of those four people.’ He paused, reflecting on their responses to Lorimer’s revelation about the double murder case. Some interesting things had been noted but he was not ready to draw any firm conclusions about them. ‘No profile, though, not yet,’ he repeated. ‘When will you bring them in for more questioning?’

‘Soon. I’ll let you know. You can be there, I presume?’ Lorimer asked, a new edge to his voice.

‘Oh, yes. Just let me know when, so I can rearrange my timetable,’ Solly told him politely. He could hear the frustration in Lorimer’s voice as the telephone call ended. Smiling to himself, Solly nodded. So much could be gleaned from the disembodied human voice. He would be interested to know how a sound analyst might interpret the DCI’s conversation.