Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘A social conscience? Letting them be resold by Oxfam, perhaps?’ Solly mused. ‘Maybe this will tell us a little more about Mr West,’ he added quietly to himself.

An hour later Lorimer had seen enough. The caretaker, a nervous-looking middle-aged man, was sitting in a glass-fronted cubicle on the ground floor. He looked up as the three police officers approached and slipped off his stool, wiping his hands on the hem of his brown dustcoat. Lorimer saw that one side of the man’s face was badly swollen and his eyes were pink-rimmed.

‘Sir, this is Mr Johnston.’ The PC introduced the man and Lorimer nodded briefly.

‘You weren’t here when we arrived,’ Lorimer began.

‘Naw.’ Johnson touched his lip, looking apologetic and scared at the same time. ‘Had tae go tae the dentist’s,’ he explained slowly, his words slightly slurred. ‘Been up all night with toothache. Said he’d take me first thing. An abscess,’ he said, indicating his right cheek painfully. ‘Wis supposed tae go up to Mr West’s,’ he added.

‘Oh? Any particular reason for that?’ Lorimer asked, his professional expression concealing an eagerness he dared not show.

‘Wanted me to take some o’ his things to the Accord Hospice shop,’ Johnson muttered.

Lorimer and Solly exchanged looks, the latter raising his bushy eyebrows over eyes that twinkled with childlike delight. The psychologist had got it in one.

‘Did he specify what time you should collect them?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Oh, before breakfast. Said they had to be taken away early.’

‘What usually happens to the household rubbish?’

‘Outsize rubbish is supposed to be left down in the garage, the rest goes down a shute. I collect it every day,’ the caretaker replied.

‘So he could have taken it away himself?’

The man shrugged and mumbled, ‘S’pose so.’

‘When did you last speak to Mr West?’

The caretaker thought about this for a moment. ‘Yesterday. Well, last night, really. About ten o’clock. That’s when he asked me to see to them bags. I’d taken a couple of paracetamol and gone to bed but couldnae sleep for this tooth.’

‘Was it customary for residents to call you out of office hours?’

Johnson shrugged. ‘No’ really. Usually they’d leave a message if they wanted me to do something particular.’

‘So it was odd that Mr West asked you to do this for him?’

‘Well, I suppose so.’ Johnson looked from one man to the other, clearly unhappy and wondering if he were in some sort of trouble.

‘When did you actually see him last?’ Solly asked.

Johnson turned to the psychologist. ‘Well,’ he glanced back at the detective chief inspector as if seeking permission to continue, ‘it wis durin’ the night. Jist efter wan o’clock. It wis the noise that made me look out.’ Johnson paused before continuing. ‘I saw his Porsche leaving the driveway and turning towards Govan.’

Lorimer and Solly exchanged glances. Govan led away from the city. Where had he gone? And why make such a thing of appearing to have left in some haste when it was clear he’d been prepared to leave all his business suits behind him?

‘I expect you have a note of his car registration?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.

‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied, turning back into the tiny cubbyhole that served as an office and flicking open a blue notebook. ‘Here it is. G21 WST.’

An hour later Lorimer knew where Graham West had gone. His car had been sighted on the M8 and it hadn’t taken too much wit to check the airport and find the silver car sitting on the second floor of the multi-storey car park. West had taken a BA scheduled flight to Heathrow and Customs had cleared him for an onward flight to Singapore.

‘What now?’ Solly asked, only to receive a black look from the DCI. Lorimer was fuming. Could they possibly issue an international warrant to stop the man from leaving Singapore airport? They had to have some sort of reason to arrest him. Without that, Graham West was free to come and go as he pleased.

‘Just because he’s skipped the country doesn’t give us the right to assume he’s guilty of any criminal act,’ Lorimer seethed.

‘And is he?’ Solly murmured.

Lorimer smacked his fist hard against the palm of his hand. ‘Well what the hell’s he running away from if he’s innocent? One of his clients is shot by a known hit man, three of his colleagues end up dead, or at least that’s what he thinks, then Joe Reilly makes a fuss and ends up with the fishes.’ Lorimer looked fit to explode. ‘So don’t tell me West’s sudden disappearance has nothing to do with all that! The man’s guilty as sin!’

Solly remained silent, his eyes fixed on a spot in the middle distance. If he disagreed with the senior investigating officer he wasn’t saying. But his very silence seemed to infuriate Lorimer.

‘For God’s sake, Solly, surely you’ve got some kind of handle on the man by now? He’s rolling in money. Just look at the car, the fancy penthouse and that … that Alison Watt!’ The painting seemed to be the final straw for the DCI. Solly could see that such a work of art being in the hands of a suspect upset him. The accountant’s lifestyle certainly suggested a source of income well in excess of what even someone in his position could earn.

Solomon Brightman had given a lot of consideration to Graham West. It was a disappointment that he had not been able to meet the man that morning for there were things he’d like to have asked, reactions to questions he’d have noted with due care and attention. But it was too late for regrets. What he had to do now was to examine the bigger picture of the river to see if West might indeed have committed those crimes.

But Solly couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the profile of a cold-blooded multiple killer. It just didn’t fit with the image of a man who cared enough to ensure that his old clothes were taken away to a hospice shop.

Alec Barr watched as the police constable carried the plastic bags full of paper shreddings. That was the fifth trip he’d made from the machine room. He felt the wetness of his hairline and took a handkerchief from his top pocket, wiped the offending perspiration away, then crushed the pale-lemon silk into a ball in his fist. If they should find anything …? For a moment as he pondered the situation, Barr found himself wishing for the familiar face of Duncan Forbes. The man’s presence would have been reassuring right now, he thought ruefully. Everything had gone wrong since Duncan’s death, everything.

He had made a decision that morning to continue with the day-to-day business of Forbes Macgregor; if they were seen to be operating as normal then that would inspire confidence in the staff as well as showing those policemen that the accounting world didn’t stop during an investigation. But if things got out of control the Institute might become involved. The Institute of Chartered Accountants had the power to put a stop on their practising certificates which would effectively close down their operations, even on a temporary basis. To stop functioning in the international market would spell disaster. Reputation in this business was everything. Barr ground his teeth. He’d play all the cards he possibly could to keep the partnership afloat. The London office had already been notified (albeit with a watered-down version) of what was going on. The deaths of personnel could not be covered up in any case. The sad accident of a senior partner was now a full-blown murder investigation with two more unexplained deaths following. Peter Hinshelwood was flying up later today. The irony was not lost on Alec Barr. The London partner’s last act before retiring might be to make a statement to the press. God! It could be as bad as the Enron disaster when a multinational firm of accountants had collapsed.