Alex Gray - The Riverman

Lorimer nodded. He couldn’t yet see a pattern in all of this but he sure as hell knew somebody who might.

Solly sat up straight, listening intently to the news item on the radio.

‘The body of a man was taken from the river Clyde in the centre of Glasgow earlier this evening. He had been fatally wounded. Police have asked for any member of the public who may have witnessed the man’s fall from the suspension bridge to come forward.’

The psychologist stroked his luxuriant beard thoughtfully. Was this too much of a coincidence or was the killing of Tony Jacobs’s brother-in-law linked to any of the other murders? No. There were too many little strands beginning to tie together for this not to be part of a pattern. And the choice of the river as a locus was once again an interesting feature. The riverman had told him all about the suicides and attempted suicides: the folk who had cursed him upside down for giving them back another chance of living in whatever hell they’d been in before thrusting themselves over the edge. But the riverman had never encountered an episode of murders like this, not in all the decades he’d been patrolling the waterways.

Tomorrow that young pop singer would be in Glasgow helping Lorimer to gain more of an insight into the death of Duncan Forbes. Until then the psychologist would continue to study his maps and make more red lines across the meandering blue of the Clyde.

The car radio had finished relaying the main headlines including the fate of Joseph Reilly. His relationship to the dead bookie had been mentioned, too. These journalists weren’t stupid, the man told himself as he waited patiently for the red Vauxhall to appear. The briefcase full of money lay on the passenger seat. He’d pass it over and go home. End of story. End of fuss.

The man flexed his fingers through the black leather gloves. He’d taken every precaution. No trace of him would ever be found. Even the car he sat in could not be identified as his.

It was all over in minutes, the briefcase handed over and the car door slammed. Then he was driving away from the darkened quayside. His skin tingled under the latex mask and he tore it off before he reached the main road. It was just another item he’d have to discard before he reached the sanctuary of home. He pressed the unfamiliar button to let down the window and flung the green mask away from him, watching briefly as it landed among other rubbish lining the embankment. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

They hadn’t been expecting to see the Incredible Hulk pass over their money and their astonished reaction had caused him a moment of unguarded delight.

DCI Lorimer closed the front door quietly behind him. The darkness in the hall told him what he already suspected: that Maggie was fast asleep. It had been one of those long days when one event tumbled hard on the heels of another. A killer was out there somewhere while Joseph Reilly was lying stiff in the mortuary.

Lorimer didn’t believe in coincidences. They all knew a pro had been hired to take out Tony Jacobs and he suspected the very same thing had occurred today. As he tiptoed up the stairs he recalled the angry scene back at HQ. Nobody had minced their words about this latest killing in broad daylight. It was a total slap in the face for Strathclyde Police. Reilly may well have had things to add to the background of the murder of his bookie brother-in-law. Maybe this would end up being one of these unsolved cases that the new unit would investigate in years to come. He fervently hoped not, at least while he was still senior investigating officer.

The bedroom was in thick darkness when Lorimer crept in but gradually his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he made out Maggie’s shape under the duvet. Leaving his clothes on the floor where he stepped out of them, he slid his naked body in next to hers. Maggie moaned softly, feeling the chill against her skin, so he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer, letting his fingers caress her breast. She gave a sigh and snuggled closer, but whether she still slept or was half-awake, he couldn’t tell. Lying there in the dark, feeling her warmth was enough for now.

‘Any luck?’

‘Aye, thank God!’ DS Wilson sighed and rubbed eyes that were reddened from lack of sleep. ‘We got a description of the assailant. Good witness, too. Picked out one of our likely lads. Guess who?’

Lorimer shook his head.

‘Dougie McAlister: Shug’s younger brother. Would you believe the cheek of it? And him banged up for the bookie’s killing.’

‘Runs in the family then,’ Lorimer said wearily. ‘You’d think they’d have more savvy.’

‘Aye, well there’s a warrant out for his arrest but nobody’s seen a thing. Or so they say.’

‘Who’s telling the worst porkies then?’ Lorimer asked.

‘His old mum, for a start. She swears her boy was innocent of it all. Butter wouldn’t melt et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Kind of overlooking his older brother’s confession to the Jacobs murder, isn’t she?’ Lorimer’s sarcasm was palpable.

Wilson shrugged. ‘She claims no contact in the last twenty-four hours, but our boys don’t believe her.’

‘Aye, well, opinions aren’t going to find that wee toerag. Bring her in if you think it’ll do any good.’ Lorimer sighed. Mary McAlister was as much a villain as her errant sons. She’d been a madam in her younger days, letting her boys rampage around the city while she coined in the proceeds of her activities. Now she was a hardened old woman. They’d be wasting precious resources interviewing her at this point.

‘Second thought.’ Lorimer flapped a hand at Wilson. ‘See what you can find out from Shelley Jacobs. That incident the other night brought her brother Joseph storming round, demanding we authorize police protection for his little sister.’

‘Looks like he was the one needing it,’ Wilson remarked. ‘Any results from the post-mortem yet?’

‘Just the cause of death. The blade went straight into his lungs. He’d have been dead before his body hit the water. No other results yet from forensics. Don’t expect any either,’ he added gloomily.

His ringing phone was the cue for Alistair Wilson to leave.

‘DCI Lorimer.’

‘I’m standing outside Graham West’s flat,’ Solly’s voice came over clearly. ‘There appears to be something of a problem.’

‘He’s what?’ Alec Barr raised himself up from the chair, his face a picture of disbelief.

‘Mr West seems to have disappeared, sir,’ Detective Constable Cameron told him. ‘Dr Brightman and DCI Lorimer are both at his flat now. Could we ask you some questions, sir?’

Barr clamped his mouth shut. A mere nod sufficed to show his compliance with the police procedures. At a sign from the detective constable, a uniformed officer closed the managing partner’s office door. Cameron motioned for the man to sit down again.

‘When did you last see Mr West, sir?’

Alec Barr glowered at the two men opposite his desk. The tall Lewisman watched the expressions flit across the man’s face, wishing he could see into his thoughts. Something wasn’t right, that much was certain. Instead of concern, Barr seemed to be beside himself with fury.

‘Yesterday!’ he snapped. ‘We left the office together and that’s the last I saw of him!’ Cameron took in the fists clenching and unclenching as the man continued to glare at them. Barr opened his mouth as if to add something, thought better of it and closed it again. Cameron’s raised eyebrow did nothing to encourage him.

‘You’re quite sure of that, sir?’

‘Of course I’m sure! We left together then Graham remembered something he’d left in the office so went back to fetch it. Then I went home.’