Alex Gray - The Riverman

Barr had had the press onto him that morning. Some bastard had told them that Graham West was a murder suspect. As a fellow partner, what comment had he to make? Barr had given a one-word reply and slammed down the phone. But he couldn’t evade them for ever. Sudden tears of rage smarted in his eyes. Peter would take over as soon as he arrived. Would there be anything he could do to limit the damage? His gaze wandered over to Catherine’s room. Maybe she could still be of use. He stared hard at the door. It was worth a try at any rate, he told himself.

Detective Constable Niall Cameron came out of the interview suite, high spots of colour on his normally pallid face. Turning to the young woman at his side, he thrust out his hand.

‘Thanks for all of that,’ he told her. ‘It was good of you to break your schedule to come back up here.’

Cindy Heron raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘But someone died!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely that’s much more important than me having a day off between gigs?’

‘Wish every member of the public thought like that,’ Cameron told her, letting go of the girl’s hand. He walked her to the front door where Josh Scott, her manager, was waiting. They’d interviewed him too. Now all that remained was to collate these statements and see if there was anything positive to add to the investigation into the death of Duncan Forbes.

Cameron watched the girl link hands with her manager and walk towards the waiting car. Her hair shone in the sun as she turned to see him standing there and the smile she gave him made his cheeks redden all the more. As he stepped back into the shadows of divisional HQ, Cameron gave himself a wee shake. To think he’d just interviewed Cindy Heron, the Cindy Heron. She’d been nothing like he’d expected, just a young girl really. A bit intense given the reason she’d been there, and much nicer in an ordinary pair of jeans and a T-shirt than her fancy stage outfits. Cameron smiled to himself. It would be a good story to tell in time, but right now he needed to go and write up this report or Lorimer would be on his back.

‘Two men,’ Lorimer mused, reading over DC Cameron’s report. ‘They both give a good description of them, even though it was dark. Oh,’ he added, reading on, ‘their window was above one of the street lamps on the cycle path. That explains it.’ He glanced at Cameron who was sitting across the desk from him. ‘And you showed them the CCTV footage?’

‘Yes, sir. And they both claim that one of the men was Duncan Forbes.’

‘And the other?’ Lorimer read on. ‘Ah. Tall and dark. Athletic build … already by the railing as if he was waiting for somebody … was supporting Forbes and guiding him towards the bushes.’

‘They both thought Forbes was going to be sick and that his companion was helping him,’ Cameron added helpfully.

‘Yes, so I see.’ Lorimer’s face was expressionless, his lips one thin line of concentration. Then he looked up suddenly. ‘This other man,’ he said quietly, ‘could it have been Graham West?’

Cameron uncrossed his legs and straightened up. He’d been waiting for the chief inspector to put that question to him.

‘Yes, sir, it could. There’s no sign of him leaving the hotel later on. The only sighting we have of West is when he walked out of the side door of the hospitality suite a few minutes before Duncan Forbes.’

‘On his own?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did the CCTV show him returning to the hotel at any time?’

‘No, sir, it didn’t.’

Lorimer’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners as if he wanted to smile. ‘Right. Thanks, Cameron, and well done. This is going to push things forward just the way we want, if we’re in time,’ he added to himself.

Graham West lay back against the leather seat and relaxed for the first time in days. It was all going according to plan. He’d cleared out everything that would link him with the whole sorry mess. Once the plane landed in Sydney he’d melt away into the crowds, just another back-packing tourist. His hand went to the place where he’d put the new passport and he felt its shape against the thin cotton of his shirt pocket. He would start a new life over here as Ray Easton. A bit of a joke really, that new name, and convenient enough for the guy who’d forged it. He closed his eyes and thought of the surf swirling up on Bondi Beach. Not long now and he’d actually be there, free as a bird.

‘Singapore?’ Iain MacKenzie, the Fiscal, asked. He’d never encountered a request like this before. Once, when a tourist had been found dead in Thailand he had had to arrange with the tour company to liaise with an English coroner to bring the body home. Such matters were way outside his jurisdiction.

‘Maybe we’d better wait till he’s arrived in Australia. At least that’s still a Crown Colony,’ he remarked wryly.

Lorimer nodded, checking the time on his wall clock. West’s plane had left London at six-thirty this morning and was due to arrive in Singapore at nearly nine o’clock GMT. A fairly brisk turnaround of two hours meant the ongoing flight to Sydney would arrive by mid-morning tomorrow, though that would be late evening Australian time.

‘See what you can do at your end, Iain. Mitchison’s been on to the Home Office this morning already. We’re waiting to see what transpires,’ he said, mimicking his superintendent’s voice. He sensed the grin on MacKenzie’s face as he put down the phone. The Fiscal was a good sort. He’d pull what strings he could to make an arrest at Sydney airport, but would they be in time? And, a small voice not too far from Solomon Brightman’s measured tones asked him, was Graham West really their killer?

It was lunchtime so Malcolm was quite within his rights to leave the office at Carlton Place, though he felt as if he were sneaking away from the turmoil behind him. He’d managed to avoid speaking to Alec and Catherine so far with all the comings and goings of the morning, which had been made easier by the fact that they’d been closeted together for the last hour. Uniformed officers had been combing the place and looking at various pieces of documentation. He didn’t want to be around when Peter Hinshelwood turned up, but that might not be an option. He hailed a passing taxi and stepped in.

It was a cheek, really, to take a cab for such a short distance and he’d been given the customary glower by the taxi driver, but Malcolm was past caring. His stomach ached with a dull, constant pain. Was the thing growing inside him? The image of a fleshy carbuncle taking up space in his abdomen was almost as bad as the pain itself. He walked along Buchanan Street, no real destination in mind. It was an old habit to wander along the pedestrian precinct to find a good eatery. A sour smile crossed his face. He hadn’t eaten lunch for weeks now.

He’d gone as far as the entrance to Nelson Mandela Place when the lights stopped him and he waited placidly with the other pedestrians for the crossing signal.

‘Wait for the wee green man,’ he heard a woman’s voice just beside him. Turning, Malcolm saw a little fair-haired boy, face raised expectantly at the red light, his young mother holding his hand, smiling down at him. The boy glanced back at her then stared again at the light, willing it to change.

Memories flooded back then. He remembered waiting at the crossing with his own mum. Green Cross Code, that’s what they’d called it. Standing there, Malcolm could hear her voice, see her face, as his earnest expression took in all that she told him about waiting for the ‘wee green man’.

When the light did change, he crossed over in a daze, reluctant to let go of the image. Instead he stopped outside the Tron Church, watching the mother and child disappear into the crowds leading to the underground station. A sharp twist in his belly made him stifle a groan and hold onto the railing beside him for support. If he could just sit down somewhere. A glance at the church showed him it was open for the mid-week lunchtime service. ‘Come Unto Me All Ye That Are Weary And I Will Give You Rest’ proclaimed the poster outside. Well, he was weary, that was for sure, and he could do with a rest. Malcolm slipped inside, taking a leaflet from a woman who was handing them out as the worshippers entered, and sat to one side, grateful for the cushioning that covered the hard Presbyterian pew.