Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘Okay?’ Alec was speaking to him and West realized he had stopped walking and was standing there like an eejit.

‘Och, there’s something I’ve forgotten,’ West improvised rapidly. ‘Look, you go on ahead. I’ll catch you up. Okay?’

For a moment he thought that Alec was going to question him further but the older man simply shrugged and walked on.

‘Make mine a Tennent’s!’ Graham called after him, turning once more towards the office. He saw Alec’s hand raised in acknowledgement.

It took an effort of will not to break into a run back to the office where his Porsche was waiting. His last night in Glasgow would not be spent sharing a pint with Alec Barr. No way. He had better things to do with his time.

Alec Barr sat frowning at the clock. He should have been here by now, surely? West hadn’t turned up and there was no response from his mobile. Still the minutes ticked by and still the man sat on, sipping his beer and gazing into space.

Eventually he drained the pint and, with a heavy sigh, heaved himself to his feet and headed for the door. Ella would have his dinner ready, so he ought to be on his way home now anyway. He’d leave a message, though, just in case.

‘Steve,’ he caught the barman’s eye. ‘I was supposed to be meeting someone for a drink. Graham West. Tall fellow with dark hair. D’you know him?’

The barman shook his head in reply.

‘Well, if he comes in tell him I waited till now. Have to get home. Can’t stay here indefinitely,’ Barr grumbled. ‘That’s nearly six-thirty. I’ll be caught in the rush if I stay any longer. Rangers are playing at home tonight.’

The barman watched as the customer shrugged a powerful pair of shoulders into his overcoat and glared around the room before thrusting the door open. He’d keep an eye out for his mate. Wouldn’t like to be in this West fellow’s shoes when Alec Barr finally caught up with him though, he told himself, polishing the spot where the pint glass had left a wet ring. The man who had just walked out didn’t have the look of a guy you’d want to cross.

Joseph Reilly stood in the middle of the bridge and looked anxiously at his watch. The call had been made an hour ago and whoever had made it should be here by now. ‘Something useful to you about Tony Jacobs,’ the voice had told him. An educated voice that had held the sort of authority Joe hadn’t heard since his schooldays, reminding him of big Eddie Docherty, the heidie at St Roc’s. No names had been given and Joe hadn’t expected any. His late brother-in-law had moved in a twilight world where shadowy figures had come and gone. Joe had put up with it for Shelley’s sake: seeing her happy had been enough. But Tony had been another matter. Just being in the same room with the man had made his flesh crawl. Joe wasn’t sorry someone had put a bullet in him. But Shelley was in despair and frightened now too. If this guy turned up with something substantial that he could take to the polis then maybe his wee sister would see her husband for what he had really been, a thoroughgoing crook. Okay, he was no saint himself, but Joe’s brushes with the law were small beer compared to what Tony Jacobs had been up to.

A sound to his right made Joe Reilly turn. A man was walking towards him, swinging a case of snooker cues. He grinned at him and the grin was returned by a diffident sort of smile.

‘Okay, pal?’ the man put out his hand and Joe felt its grasp cold within his own sweating palm.

‘Aye, what the-?’ Joe’s bewildered question was cut off as the man pulled him close and a pain seared through his chest. He heard a voice yelping in agony. Then everything went sideways and he was falling, falling through space until the dark water came rushing up to embrace his flailing limbs.

On the south side of the river the man with the snooker cues walked with a jaunty spring in his step. It would never pay to look as if he were running away from anything. He even stopped once to light a fag, throwing the match spinning away towards the river. Smiling to himself, he imagined the sizzle as it hit the water. One moment alight then instantly snuffed out. Like that bloke. He shook his head. Maybe he’d find out the man’s name in the papers tomorrow but that didn’t bother him. It was just a name, wasn’t it? Just another job. If he hadn’t done it someone else would, he told himself with a shrug of his shoulders. He continued his walk along the pavement, past the boatyard and beyond until he came to the gate into Riverside Gardens. They were waiting. The man did not even look behind him as he strolled towards the red car. The easy bit was over, he thought. Now the hard bit was about to begin.

George Parsonage took less than eight minutes to reach the body below the bridge. There was the usual cluster of onlookers peering down with uniformed officers, keeping them back as best they could. There hadn’t been time to set up a police cordon yet, by the looks of things. George rowed hard against the strong current, his arms a mere extension of the rhythmic beat of the oars. He could see the body floating several yards away from the suspension bridge, still in mid-stream.

Slowly he approached the lifeless shape, a lifetime of experience heightening his caution. One wrong move and the man’s body could be engulfed by a wave then sink deep below the murky surface. It was over in a matter of seconds, the swift dip of the hull and one mighty heave lifted his cargo inside the safety of George Parsonage’s sturdy craft. For a moment he let the oars rest in their rowlocks as he examined the man in the bottom of his boat. Blood mingled with water sluiced from his side, a darker patch staining his suit. George shook his head briefly then glanced upwards. Something bad had happened up there and the sooner he took this fellow into the van waiting by the quayside, the better.

Above him several pairs of eyes watched as he rowed back towards the city, the dark shape of a corpse at his feet. Already the people were moving away as the officers began their questions. They’d just been passing. Hadn’t seen it happen: didn’t want to be involved.

DCI Lorimer’s face was grim. Through the viewing screen he watched as Dr Rosie Fergusson made that first incision into the man’s flesh. The naked corpse lay under the lights, a case for the pathologist’s scrutiny. He was no longer a human being, Lorimer thought, merely a collection of bones, flesh and fluids. Lorimer tried to concentrate on Rosie’s voice telling them what she was doing to Joseph Reilly’s cadaver. He listened as she talked about the wound in the man’s chest.

‘Measure this, will you, Dan?’ she asked her assistant. ‘Boat-shaped wound here. So we’ve got a blunt and sharp edge to whatever weapon caused this.’ Her latex-covered fingers pushed the lips of the wound together. ‘Still got to see now how deeply it penetrated,’ she muttered, half to herself.

Lorimer watched with his customary fascination as the pathologist sought to interpret the injury that had proved fatal for Shelley Jacob’s brother. One deep plunge with the weapon was all it had taken. Then that shove over the edge of the suspension bridge. Why had the killer not simply left him there to die? Had he wanted to make sure his victim would never recover? And had this been a random act of violence in a city too well renowned for its knife culture? Nothing seemed to have been taken from the victim; his wallet had still been inside the jacket pocket when George Parsonage had pulled him out of the river. But somehow he doubted that this was sudden and unpremeditated. He felt certain that Joseph Reilly had been taken out by a hired killer. Lorimer stared at the body. It was as if some statement was being made. Everything seemed to be revolving around the river: Jacobs Betting Shops on one side, Forbes Macgregor’s palatial offices on the other. And Jennifer Hammond had lived right on the water’s edge, he reminded himself.