Alex Gray - The Riverman

Elizabeth Forbes put down the telephone, her hand cold and trembling. She couldn’t even trust her own voice, she realized, as the conversation played over in her head. Jennifer Hammond had been chatty, groaning about Monday mornings and wasn’t Mrs Forbes lucky to be out of the rat race. Pleasant, inane phrases that meant nothing, not even a barb of resentment that Liz had such freedom to live her life as she pleased, something that she had sensed from a few of the younger women in the firm. But of course Jennifer revelled in her career, everyone knew that. She sighed for a moment, thinking about the vibrant redhead who was always so full of energy. And mischief, a little voice reminded her. Ah, but harmless mischief, Liz countered. Jennifer was fun . Surely she would never send such a horrible letter to Duncan’s wife? Everyone respected her husband, she believed, and she had always thought that respect extended to herself. But somebody had sent it.

Liz’s eyes were drawn towards the hall bureau with those contents now hidden from view. She’d placed the letter in the tiny compartment of a musical box and shoved it behind the lowest drawer: the box had tinkled half a bar of Mozart as she’d pushed it away, reminding her of the birthday when Duncan had given her the gift. It had taken extra resolve to jam it under an old sheaf of papers and Liz had heard the sob catch in her throat.

What to do now? Her earlier intention to speak to some of the women in Duncan’s office had shrivelled with that meaningless conversation she’d had with the human resources manager. Just get on with your day’s work, she told herself briskly, her usual common sense pushing down the rising panic she’d felt all morning. That was a good thought. There was plenty to be done. The Scouts were coming at the weekend to collect jumble for their annual sale. That would keep her going, sorting through stuff and taking cartons from the attic out to the double garage. The sound of a blackbird scolding out on the lawn reminded her that she still had to refill all the bird feeders.

Liz straightened up, pulling in her stomach muscles and letting her shoulders slide down her back as she did at Pilates every week. Taking a deep breath, she resolved to forget the contents of the bureau and to think about other, more pleasant things. But, despite her best intentions, her hands slid across the polished surface of the bureau. For an instant she fancied the shelves and drawers were made of glass that she could look through right to the bottom where that envelope lay, its contents visible for all to see.

The heads of the mourners were bowed towards the grave, obscuring his view, but DCI Lorimer knew from the priest’s clear voice that the coffin was slowly being lowered into the ground. He had chosen a place by the path, far enough back not to intrude into the crowds that circled round the family but reasonably near so that he looked like a genuine mourner. Today Lorimer was wearing his new winter coat, its thick black softness surprisingly light over his suit. Cashmere, Maggie had told him smugly, proud of her Christmas gift to her husband. He’d never possessed such a fine garment before and had almost protested at the price she must have paid for it, but one look at the glow in her eyes had stopped him and he’d kissed her instead. Now he wished he could tell her how it felt as he stood there sheltered from the blast of icy wind that swept across the cemetery, snug within its folds.

Anyone glancing his way would never have taken him for a policeman. His early studies in history of art had been an unusual beginning for the man who was now a familiar figure in Strathclyde CID. Yet those who knew him remarked on that still, steady gaze. It was the gaze of one who could see hidden depths whether within a work of art or into the very heart of a man. Detective Chief Inspector William Lorimer made most people look twice, thinking perhaps they had seen him somewhere before. His height alone marked him out and he had an air of authority that was shared by those accustomed to contact with television cameras: an actor perhaps? Or was he a sportsman? He stood with feet apart, hands held behind his back in an almost military stance, but his was the sort of face that looked used to issuing commands, his piercing blue eyes alert to what was going on around him.

The man’s death had made front-page news, given his status in the city as well as the bloody nature of his killing. Tony Jacobs had been in the Sunday supplements just weeks before, his lucrative chain of bookmakers catapulting him into the ranks of Scotland’s Rich List, his distinctive thatch of grey hair above a still-youthful face a trademark in the glamorous circles he’d frequented. Sadly for him, it had also been an easy mark for the guy with the shotgun. They had hauled in a variety of known thugs, some of them Jacobs’ own hard men, until the identity of the man’s killer had finally been established. A contract killing with a confession; Lorimer should have felt some satisfaction that the case was done and dusted, but he knew that the ripple effect in Glasgow’s underworld could still prove troublesome. Shug McAlister might be safely locked up in Barlinnie for now, yet his paymasters were still out there and the man wasn’t talking. At least Tony Jacobs’ family had some sense of relief now that the Procurator Fiscal had finally released the body for burial.

A sudden flash made Lorimer turn and he saw, to his irritation, that the press had arrived at the cemetery gates. In swift response, a couple of burly men peeled themselves away from the group around the grave and headed towards the cameramen. They had no sooner moved than the journalists hastily shouldered their gear and legged it. Shelley Jacobs had insisted on privacy when Lorimer had offered a police escort for the family and so he had come alone. It had been too much to expect that the media would have respected the wishes of a young widow.

Tony Jacobs had managed to avoid any brushes with the law but there had always been a suspicious whiff of something unsavoury about the man. Digging deeper into the case, Lorimer had found himself curious about Jacobs as more and more faces of the bookie’s colleagues expressed a sympathy that was obviously feigned. The man who’d owned Jacobs Betting Shops had been universally fêted and just as universally disliked. Only Shelley had seemed genuinely distressed when Lorimer had spoken to her following the shooting at Jacobs’ Clyde Street office. My Tony , she’d kept saying over and over, my Tony …

Lorimer saw the movement of the crowd and made to leave the cemetery before any of the mourners realized who had been standing in their midst. He would observe them from the sanctuary of his car as they filed out, noting who had come to pay their last respects and storing away the thoughts of those who had, for reasons of their own, failed to attend. As he turned from the graveyard, Lorimer saw a flock of crows wheel over the fields and he heard the rumble of a tractor beyond the hedge of yew trees. He stopped for a moment, watching as the birds dipped in a sweeping motion towards the sound, their black shapes vivid against the grey February skies.

Ploughing, seedtime and harvest, he thought. Life goes on.

Life was certainly going on in the division as he returned to the city. The station car park was busier than usual and Lorimer had to reverse the Lexus into a corner space next to a wall, causing him to squeeze his way out to avoid scraping the door. Not that a few more scratches would have mattered; the old car had seen better days. For an unsentimental man he was still inordinately attached to his ancient Lexus. Mitchison had dropped hints to him on several occasions about replacing it with something more suitable but this had simply served to strengthen Lorimer’s resolve to hang on to the car until it was ready for the great scrapyard in the sky. His superintendent might look on its faded glamour with disdain but Lorimer had no intention of trading in the old girl. Given its age and mileage it was practically worthless anyway.