Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘Solly?’

‘Hm?’

‘Come to bed, darling,’ Rosie mumbled sleepily, her hand at her mouth as she stifled a yawn. ‘It’s after two in the morning, can’t that wait?’ she protested to Solly’s rounded back. He had been sitting there hunched over his computer, when Rosie had finally given up and headed for bed. There was no reply so she ran a hand across her tousled hair and shuffled back to the darkened room next door. Well, she had to have a steady hand for tomorrow’s PMs and a good night’s sleep was called for. Whatever her darling was up to, he’d tell her in time. Graham West’s disappearance had galvanized the lot of them into action, but she still had the routine of daily deaths to attend to. Not every cadaver that was pushed into her post-mortem room would turn out to be a murder victim. And, thankfully, not every one had engendered such complications as that of the late Duncan Forbes.

Solly hardly heard the living room door close as Rosie left him. He was gazing at a chart he had constructed. It showed the river Clyde from the area beyond the Science Centre, then the curves of its winding course twisting into the city and away to Glasgow Green where the riverman lived. George Parsonage had impressed him as a man who held himself in readiness for any sort of tragedy. He could be at the scene of an accident in minutes. What kind of life must he have, on call at every hour of the day and night? But then, Solly mused, he had been born into that way of life and seemed to have inherited a sense of duty to his fellow man. How different was the mentality of the killer! Whoever had dispatched Joseph Reilly had not a shred of compassion in his soul. And Jennifer Hammond? Duncan Forbes? Was anyone lying awake tonight, their conscience burning with the acid of remorse?

Solly’s eyes took in the river with its meandering shape and those black circles dotted around its banks. That was where Forbes had been fished out of the water, a stone’s throw from the Crowne Plaza Hotel; that was Jennifer Hammond’s flat overlooking the river and, between them both, caught on a curve, Graham West’s penthouse. Solly recalled the view from the man’s home: he would have been able to see everything up and down the river from that position. Jennifer Hammond’s view was more restricted but one could make out the Kingston Bridge with its never-ending traffic and catch a glimpse of the silver spire of the Science Centre’s tower. He let the cursor take the map further east until he saw the circle that signified Carlton Place. It was just beyond the George V road bridge. Anyone could take a walk along there and disappear into the maelstrom of pedestrians in the heart of the city. Clyde Street was minutes away, then Argyle Street another short walk. Solly had dismissed any notion of a boat: West’s own craft was moored in Kip Marina, way down the Clyde. The boats lying at the edge of the river were restricted to ferrying punters up and down to the shops at Braehead, he’d discovered, or out into the open waters beyond the estuary.

It all pointed to West. Then why should he be sitting here in the wee small hours, gazing at a computer screen as if it would somehow tell him something to the contrary? Was he simply looking for difficulties, as Lorimer had suggested? But, try as he might, the psychologist could not rid himself of the belief that Graham West was running away from more than the retribution that would come from being found guilty of murder.

It was a morning straight out of Chaucer: ‘… as fresh as is the month of May,’ she whispered to the still air. All it needed was the young squire himself to come riding out of the mists. This May morning was sweet indeed with a fragrance lifting off the long grasses and a haze in the air that promised a hot day to come. Maggie crumbled the remnants of last night’s scones onto the bird table, shivering slightly in her flimsy dressing gown. Her ankles were wet with dew and she’d need to discard her slippers on the doormat or risk footprints all over the kitchen floor. But it was nice being out here before the day began. She hugged her arms tight around her chest, listening as a blackbird poured out his song from somewhere in the shrubbery. Their garden was overgrown and neglected, a haven for birds and wildlife, but a point of raised eyebrows from their more fastidious neighbours. Maggie always blitzed it during the long school holidays in a passion of guilt, then forgot all about it for much of the year.

Today she had several free periods since the seniors were on exam leave. It would give her time to catch up with the mountain of administration that had accumulated in her classroom cupboard. A real tidy up was needed there too, she thought to herself, glancing ruefully at the thistles swaying in the breeze. Then she stood quite still as a flash of red and yellow caught her eye: a goldfinch alighting on a clump of teasels, making the spiky plant bend under its tiny weight. Maggie watched intently, wishing her husband was up and about to see the wee bird but she had left him slumbering soundly. Poor soul, she thought. This case was taking its toll on him. If only he’d been promoted to superintendent, then maybe his caseload would have lightened a bit. But he’d have worked just as hard, a small voice scolded her. And Jo Grant would still have been in his team. She’d done nothing about that overheard telephone call, or the note in Bill’s pocket. A sense of foreboding that she recognized as sheer cowardice had kept her from uttering any questions to her husband. Since her home-coming he’d been more than attentive. And these fevered nights of lovemaking were surely at odds with a man who was having an affair with his colleague?

The finch flew off and Maggie watched its bright wings until it was out of sight.

‘Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls, finches’ wings,’ she quoted softly to the garden. The poet-priest had had an eye for the tiniest detail. Maybe she’d give Pied Beauty a whirl with the new third years after exam leave was over, show them one of her bird books.

With the bird’s departure came the sense of awakening and a need to begin her day. She’d put the kettle on, take Bill a cup of tea. Then his day could begin too, she thought, and with it the urgent hunt for the man they believed to be a killer.

Lorimer drove into the car park with one eye on the lines of vehicles. Good. He was in before Mitchison. That was something at any rate. He’d speak to Iain MacKenzie before anyone else. A quick glance at his watch told him it was eight o’clock in Sydney. West’s plane would still be in the air. They had two more hours to arrange a welcoming party, if they could.

He sprinted up the steps two at a time and strode along the corridor to his office. One of several notes on his desk told him what he didn’t want to know: no authorization had yet been given to stop Graham West from entering Australia and continuing to wherever he might choose to go. The note was marked with the time: six-thirty this morning. Maybe things would have progressed since then, he thought, grasping his phone and tapping in the Fiscal’s number.

‘Good morning.’ Iain MacKenzie sounded cheery. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard yet, then?’

‘What? Good news, I hope?’

‘Aye, you could say that. We’ve got cooperation from the Sydney police. They’ve arranged for officers to meet West’s plane. They’ve got a good description of him.’

‘Right,’ Lorimer replied shortly. ‘You’ll keep me posted?’

‘Naturally,’ MacKenzie’s voice betrayed an excitement that Lorimer suddenly realized he didn’t share as he shut his mobile.

What was wrong with him? Why this sudden feeling of deflation? They’d arrest the man, return him to the UK and then have him up to face the charges here in Glasgow. So why wasn’t he sharing Iain MacKenzie’s jubilation?