Alex Gray - The Riverman

Right, that was it, he thought, rising from the desk. He shouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity; Dad would’ve hated that. He’d really have to find that folder if he wanted to take Cath’s advice and look for a job. Maybe Mum had put them in the hall bureau. With another sigh, he slouched along the corridor, sunlight from the study window following him.

The bureau was always full of stuff that his parents liked to keep. Philip sat down heavily on the carpet and opened it up. Here things were a lot less tidy, he thought as a bundle of papers tied in pink legal ribbon came to hand. A faint smile dawned over his face as he recognized the school reports and the daft hand-made Easter cards he and Janey had made all those years ago. Fancy Mum keeping all that stuff! Philip flicked slowly through the bundle then laid it aside. No. It was definitely a blue folder he was looking for. Opening the drawer wider, he began pulling out what looked like architect’s drawings on squared paper; a project for the extension to the kitchen that had never happened. Maybe his certificates were underneath this lot? Yes! He lifted the envelope bearing the University of Glasgow crest and drew out the paper proclaiming that he, Philip Kenneth Forbes, was now a Magistrum Artium cum honoribus secundae classis . For a second he regarded the parchment with a wistful pride then put it to one side as he continued his search for the other certificates.

Aunty Cath had reminded him he might need more than just his degree when he went for interviews. Some companies liked to know what you’d achieved at school, she’d said. It gave them an insight into your other skills.

Philip pulled out the remaining papers but his certificates were nowhere to be seen. Had they fallen down the back of the cabinet? Kneeling down, Philip peered into the space beyond the back of the drawer. There was something there, he realized, his hand feeling around. But it didn’t feel like papers, it was something hard and square in shape. His fingers closed over the object and he drew it out carefully, the narrow space causing the drawer frame to graze the back of his hand.

It was a music box. He turned the thing in his hands. It was made from heavy green china with a gold lyre embossed on its lid. He remembered this old box. Hadn’t it used to sit on Mum’s dressing table? What tune had it played? Squatting down before the bureau, Philip instinctively turned the key. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he turned the box upside down and shook it gently. A dull tinkling sound came from within. There was a small drawer above the mechanism. Carefully he pulled it open.

There! No wonder it wasn’t working. Those folded letters were obviously jamming up the works. Philip pulled them out then turned the key once more. Strains of a Mozart waltz tinkled out. Sitting back, he listened as the tune played over and over until the notes slowed down and finally stopped. He’d played with that musical box as a wee boy; he remembered the effort of winding the metal key then the sheer joy of dancing round the room with his mother holding onto his chubby fingers. She wouldn’t be doing any dancing now, he thought, putting the musical box back into the drawer. He’d need to find somewhere else for these letters, he told himself, absently picking them up and straightening their creases. They were addressed to Mum, both of them typed on blue envelopes.

A sudden curiosity made him pause. Why on earth had they been secreted away like that? There was a moment of reluctance when all his instincts told him this was none of his business. Glancing towards the front door, Philip listened. Everyone was out and he didn’t expect them back for hours, so why was he so edgy? With a shrug he took the letters out of their envelopes and began to read.

Less than a minute later Philip Forbes sat back against the bureau. All the power seemed to have drained from his body and he felt sick. His brain whirled with possibilities. Mum was being targeted by someone: someone who was stating the most obscene and damning things in such a matter-of-fact way. Had she confronted Dad with them? He looked at the letters in his hand with disgust. No. Not if she’d hidden them. Why hadn’t she just binned these horrible lies? he thought angrily. Then another idea came to his mind, an idea so awful that his whole body trembled with fear.

Detective Constable Niall Cameron leaned back. They’d been over and over these tapes until he thought he’d be seeing them in his sleep. But that was when he’d drawn himself up. What if this repetitive viewing had dulled his senses? What if he’d missed the obvious? The very idea made him go cold. Lorimer would have his guts for garters. So that was why he was sitting yet again facing the television screen, hours after he could have packed up and gone home.

The tape of Duncan Forbes staggering out of the Crowne Plaza had been played and replayed, particularly the actual sighting of the victim, the last recorded image of him alive. Cameron had decided to look elsewhere on the tape, just to satisfy himself that nothing had been overlooked; and now he’d found it. According to the video recorder a car had passed by the entrance of the hotel eight minutes and thirteen seconds before the figure of Forbes had appeared on the screen. Cameron couldn’t identify the colour from the black-and-white film but it was a light shade, maybe pale grey or blue metallic, easily identifiable as a Mercedes SLK Roadster with a registration number that was now written down on the pad in front of him.

The DC lifted the telephone. A quick enquiry and he’d be a little bit wiser.

Fifteen minutes later DC Cameron was staring at the name he had written beside the registration number. A frown creased his brow then cleared as the significance of his discovery dawned on him.

‘Sir.’ Cameron stood in the doorway of Lorimer’s office. He saw the senior investigating officer’s head come up wearily and pale-blue eyes regarding him with barely concealed impatience.

‘You working late, Niall? What is it?’

‘Sir, I think you should see this.’ Cameron handed him a sheet of paper. ‘I ran the Crowne Plaza tapes again and found a car belonging to Duncan Forbes. It was being driven by a woman, by the looks of the tape, though there’s only a back view.’ He hesitated, watching the DCI’s reaction.

‘Who do you think it might be?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘Mrs Forbes, perhaps? We do know that there was a regular taxi service for all the senior staff and partners, but did Duncan Forbes usually drive himself home? We know he wasn’t a drinker.’

Lorimer nodded thoughtfully. Jennifer Hammond had told him as much, implying that Duncan would have taken a taxi anyway. Mrs Forbes had expected that too, hadn’t she? So what had she been doing driving from the Crowne Plaza car park shortly before her husband had left the party?

‘Had she been in the building at all?’ he asked. ‘Do we have any tapes that give us another sighting of her?’

Cameron’s sigh was so audible that a smile twitched around Lorimer’s mouth.

‘Look, why don’t we go through them together? I’m just about finished up here.’ He closed the file on his desk.

‘If you’re sure.’ Cameron brightened immediately.

‘Aye, I’m sure,’ Lorimer replied. Maggie was out at the theatre with a bunch of kids so there was no problem about putting in a few more hours. ‘Let’s see what we come up with.’

‘What d’you think, sir?’

Lorimer frowned at the screen in front of him. They’d gone over this part of the tape several times now, yet he didn’t want to put into words what both he and his detective constable were thinking.

‘Sir?’

Heaving a sigh, Lorimer shook his head. ‘Can’t think why she’d do it. But we’d be derelict in our duty if we didn’t investigate the possibility, now wouldn’t we?’