Alex Gray - The Riverman

That took care of Alec Barr for the moment, now he had to find out exactly where the other partners had been on the two nights when murders had taken place. Like Graham West, Catherine Devoy lived alone but was there anyone who had seen them coming and going? Had anyone bothered to check? Lorimer fumed to himself as he turned the Lexus away from the avenue that led to Barr’s front door. Any moment now West’s plane would be landing.

*

The plane skimmed the tarmac with hardly a jolt and the rush of brakes roared in his ears. From his position next to the window he could see the modern campanile of Inchinnan Church and the gentle curve of the hills to the west. A huge sigh heaved from his chest. God, but it was good to be back home in Glasgow! The few possessions he had were stowed in a canvas carry-on bag in the overhead bins, but he would sit quietly until all the other passengers had left their seats. That was what they’d told him to do. He wondered if she would meet him at arrivals. It was a long time since he’d seen her, but maybe he’d still recognize her. With a strange smile on his face, the passenger on flight 206 continued to look out of the window and marvel that he had managed to come so far and survive so much.

It took ages for the plane to clear. Graham West responded to the beautiful woman’s smile with a cursory nod. The girls at Singapore Airlines had catered for his every whim, but for once he had barely noticed their feminine charms. His mind had been on other things.

He looked warily at the officials in fluorescent jackets at the mouth of the corridor, then averted his eyes. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself. Keep your head down, he told himself. He’d bought a cheap baseball cap at Heathrow Airport and now he pulled the peak forward so that the lower half of his face was obscured. Just look like any other weary traveller.

Now the queue of people was moving forward towards Immigration Control. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. A large stain of sweat would easily be seen, but so what? They’d been travelling for a day and a half: loads of other passengers would be just the same. That was the secret: to be just like everyone else. The queue inched forward and Graham could hear the mumble of voices answering questions. Suddenly he grinned as the memory of an old joke came to him:

‘Any convictions?’ The Australian immigration officer asks.

‘Didn’t know they were compulsory,’ replies the new arrival.

Well, he certainly had no previous convictions and neither had Ray Easton. But as he came closer to the barrier that separated him from the area beyond, he felt a sense of unease.

‘Passport,’ the man said.

Graham West handed it over, sweat now trickling between his shoulder blades.

The man looked at him for a shrewd moment then said, ‘Just remove your hat, please.’

West took off the baseball cap, staring as the officer compared him to the face in his photograph.

He swallowed hard then touched his stubbled chin. ‘Haven’t had time to shave yet,’ he commented, trying to raise a feeble smile.

The man handed him back the passport and flicked a hand in the direction of the baggage carousels. ‘Next!’ he called out, the man before him already forgotten.

West walked forward, every step taking him closer to freedom. He’d done it! He’d actually done it! Breathing a huge sigh of relief he replaced the baseball cap on his head and looked for any sign that proclaimed ‘exit’.

People around him were pushing trolleys piled high with baggage and heading for the double doors that would take them out into the arrivals area. He slipped easily between two middle-aged men. Camouflage, he warned himself.

Then they were out, into bright sunlight pouring through the windows and a noise of voices talking, shouting and whooping as passengers were reunited with long-lost friends and relations. He could see the doors to the street and imagined a waiting line of taxis.

‘Mr Easton?’ a voice at his shoulder asked.

Graham whirled around. Two uniformed policemen stood there, unsmiling.

‘Would you mind coming with us, sir?’

‘They’ve got him!’ Detective Constable Niall Cameron burst into Lorimer’s room just as the DCI hung up his jacket. ‘We heard from Sydney just now and they’ve taken him in for questioning. They say it’s just a matter of time before he’s sent back to Glasgow!’

‘Good,’ Lorimer replied, trying his best to look pleased. It had been a long case with so many twists and turns that the team would view this with huge relief. So how would they feel when he asked them to probe a little deeper into certain areas?

‘Ask everyone to assemble in the muster room,’ he told Cameron. ‘Five minutes.’

When the door closed, Lorimer drummed his fingers on the desk. What the hell was he meant to say to them? That Dr Solomon Brightman felt West’s profile was all wrong for that of a serial killer? That he himself had some weird sort of intuition that things were not as straightforward as they seemed?

When the telephone rang Lorimer ignored it for several moments, then picked it up.

‘DCI Lorimer,’ he snapped, then his face changed as the caller on the line identified herself.

‘There’s been a new development,’ Lorimer told the assembled officers. ‘Graham West has been picked up by the police in Sydney and it looks very much as if we’ll have him back here within two days.’

The cheer that went up was silenced by his raised hand.

‘There’s something else,’ Lorimer went on, his voice sombre. ‘I’ve just had a call from Mrs Lesley Adams.’

All eyes turned in his direction.

‘She’s bringing someone else in to see us shortly.’ Lorimer looked round the room at the expectant faces. ‘Michael Turner has just arrived back in Scotland.’

Solomon Brightman alighted from the taxi outside police headquarters. It was less than half an hour since Lorimer’s call. He had handed his lecture notes to his eager Scandinavian assistant, thrown on his coat and scarf and made for University Avenue. A taxi had arrived in minutes.

Solly nodded as the receptionist handed him his security badge then looked around him. There was no sign of any excitement here at any rate. That would change as soon as he went upstairs to CID, he chuckled to himself. Voices behind him made him turn around. A dark-haired woman and a younger man were approaching the reception desk.

‘I’m Mrs Adams,’ he heard the woman say, her voice breathy with nerves. ‘And this is Mr Turner,’ she added, permitting herself a smile in the man’s direction.

Solly stood quietly, studying the pair. Lesley Adams was a small woman, petite, like Rosie, but without his fiancée’s warm shapeliness. This woman was all angles, her high cheekbones and slim dark-suited figure making her appear brittle. The expression on her face was haunted and Solly could see by the dark circles below her eyes that she hadn’t slept. Michael Turner, on the other hand, was gaunt but relaxed. He might have been an athlete fresh from a training session: Solly suspected that his wiry frame belied a hidden strength. He wore a pair of ill-fitting chinos and a checked shirt that looked like thick American cotton. A glance at his shoes told Solly the rest. Birkenstocks, the US students’ favourite footwear. Wherever Michael Turner had been for the past few weeks, his luggage hadn’t travelled with him.

*

‘Havenae hud any breakfast?’ the voice of the woman behind the counter accused him. ‘Cannae huv that, son,’ she scolded, dishing up eggs, bacon and black pudding with gusto.

Sadie looked at the row of people standing in the canteen. Lorimer had brought them in with a brief explanation that his companions would have tea but could this young man be given one of her breakfast specials? The wee woman looked as if she could do with a good feed an’ all, but she just asked for some tea. Lorimer had taken a plateful of Danish pastries onto his tray, she noticed. Dr Brightman would have one too, she supposed, but yon man never seemed to notice what he was eating. Always away in a dream, they psychologists, Sadie told herself. Nae in the real world. Well, the laddie looked like he was happy with a ‘Sadie special’ at any rate, she thought, folding her arms in satisfaction as they trooped towards a table in the corner.