Alex Gray - The Riverman

The psychologist sat staring into space. Before him the computer screen showed a map of the river Clyde with several large dots placed at strategic points. Those dots indicated the places around the river associated with the murders and just this morning a new circle had been added, that of Graham West’s penthouse flat. It was close to the human resource manager’s home, perhaps less than a ten-minute walk through the car park at Springfield Quay and past the cinema. According to their information, Jennifer Hammond had left the party with Michael Turner and had later gone back to her own flat. Where had West been? It would be interesting to find out what had happened to the members of Forbes Macgregor’s party as they’d made their various ways home. And what Graham West had been doing the night of the woman’s murder. He recalled the horror in the man’s voice as he’d blurted out, ‘No! Not Jennifer!’ That had given something away. He’d not wanted to make a connection between the death of the woman and his partner, Duncan Forbes. But did that mean he knew nothing about their deaths? ‘ Duncan Forbes was a good man ,’ Malcolm Adams had insisted in that throaty voice. So good that he didn’t deserve to die, he might have added. Or was he trying to tell them that within that boardroom there was one among them who was the perfect antithesis of goodness?

Graham West raised the lid of the laptop and pressed the ‘on’ button.

What on earth was going on here? That policeman had referred to Michael Turner’s murder. He was dead; of course he was. Watching the screen flick through the preliminaries, West chewed his lip nervously. Would there be another message for him? Could a dead man really make contact from the other side? He shuddered as the thought washed over him, then gave himself a mental shake. This was just silly. Michael was gone and someone was playing games with him. But they were dangerous games and he’d be a fool to ignore them.

There were several emails but none from his mysterious correspondent, West noted with relief. A glance at his wristwatch told him it was two-thirty in the morning New York time. But why should he assume the messages were coming from across the Atlantic? Just because the guy used Michael’s name didn’t mean he was over there, did it? The return address was so encrypted that it would be impossible for an amateur like him to trace. But would it be beyond their own IT experts? Graham West drew a deep sigh. It was far too risky. Nobody could be party to what had been going on in his life these past few months, nobody. And yet someone out there had revealed that they had enough information to make him pay dearly for it.

The door creaked once and the man stood still, holding his breath. The silence was so intense it was almost tangible. Back in the city he had wept with frustration at the constant wail of police sirens and loud shouting from the streets. For a moment he remembered his own flat in Glasgow’s Merchant City. There the night noises were friendlier: happy drunks staggering past after closing time, the sound of pigeons scratching on his windowsill, the woman downstairs singing to her wee baby. The tenement where he’d lived contained a hotch-potch of people, from student rentals to the newer residents like Michael who had invested before they were priced out of the market. And he’d been so keen to get away from all of that, he thought. Going to seek pastures new, the Big Apple. God! What he’d give to turn back the clock and be in Glasgow now.

Unbidden, Michael gave a sob then stopped in horror as the sound seemed to fill the space outside the room. To waken JJ might be more than his life was worth. Literally. The bathroom was at the end of a narrow corridor. All he needed to do was have a swift look around for another telephone point somewhere down low near the skirting board. Then he’d flush the toilet and JJ would assume he was taking a leak. Michael blinked, peering through the darkness. There was no artificial light outside in this remote hideaway but he could see a pale stream of moonlight wash through the bathroom window. He hunkered down, trying to make out any tell-tale crevices along the wall but there were none that he could see. Might as well have a piss, he thought, realizing that nerves had made his bladder full.

The trickle of water into the bowl sounded suddenly loud and he wondered if his captor would come running along the corridor, gun in hand. For a moment the image made him want to giggle, it was so absurd. But the moment died as he pulled up his trousers. This was mad, but not in any way funny. What he had found out in Glasgow was having serious repercussions in this backwoods shanty. Duncan Forbes had said it would be all right, but he had lied. It was most definitely not all right and now he was somewhere in the southern states of America with a hired killer who was trying to blackmail one of Duncan’s partners.

He pulled the chain and heard the water thundering from the cistern.

‘Feelin’ hungry?’

Michael jumped at the voice behind him, then turned to see JJ’s unshaven face grinning at him from the corridor. The moonlight glinted off the weapon in his hands.

‘Fancy somethin’ myself. How about it?’

Michael hesitated, his eyes on the gun.

‘Go fix us a sandwich and a beer,’ JJ commanded, watching as Michael backed out of the bathroom and felt his way back up the corridor in the dark.

Michael made his way slowly towards the kitchenette, hand trailing against the wall. JJ had to go to the toilet some time and now was the best chance he’d have to locate a telephone point. Switching on the light, he eyed the counter where the bags of groceries had been. There was an old-fashioned Dualit toaster and a stack of crockery under the overhanging shelves. Frantically he searched the entire room, but there was nothing.

Hearing the sounds from the bathroom, he whipped open the refrigerator door and began pulling out the makings of a snack. The bread rolls were in the salad compartment and as he bent to pull them out it dawned on him that he couldn’t see where the appliance was plugged in. He shuffled on his knees, craning his neck around to see the space behind the fridge.

For a moment he was disappointed, but then he saw it. Under what must have been years of dirt and thick layers of cobwebs, the electric cable was plugged into the wall at the back. And right next to that was an empty telephone socket.

JJ’s footsteps brought Michael to his feet and he threw some salad into the sink and turned on the cold tap, first rinsing the dustballs off his fingers. He sensed the man standing in the doorway but did not turn around, making a show of running each lettuce leaf under the water. Michael realized that he had been holding his breath as he heard JJ grunt and move on down the corridor. He finished making up the rolls, pulled out a couple of cans then carried the lot back through to the main living room.

The older man had lit the paraffin lamp next to the window, creating a reflection of the interior. One false move on his part and JJ would see him. Best to play dumb for now, Michael thought, sitting back into the chair where he had fallen asleep some hours before. He had found one thing that might bring him closer to escaping this gunman. A little more patience and he might just find the handset that had been plugged into that disused telephone socket.

‘You’re slipping, pal.’ The man slapped Graham West on the shoulder as they left the squash court. West mustered a grin to Frank who was whistling cheerfully on his way to the locker room, but his expression changed to one of anxiety as soon as the other man was out of sight.

He was slipping. It was true. West had to admit that he wasn’t able to concentrate on anything, especially at work. The deadlines for reports had come and gone and still they sat in his desk drawer. He wasn’t sleeping at night, despite the large amount of brandy he’d consumed; alcohol might dull the senses but it only seemed to keep him in a state of permanent half-wakefulness. A bad conscience, his granny would have told him. And she’d be right.