Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘Sir,’ a uniformed officer broke into Lorimer’s thoughts, ‘we’ve picked up Dougie McAlister.’

‘Right, Mr McAlister, let’s have it all. And I mean all,’ Lorimer told him, his blue eyes boring into the man’s face.

Dougie McAlister was a smaller, more washed-out version of big brother, Shug. He lacked the older man’s hard-edged experience, Lorimer guessed, looking at the eyes flitting from one person to another as he tried to avoid contact with the chief inspector on the other side of the table. He was on something too, by the looks of him. Not something that had instilled any confidence, however.

‘It wisnae me, Mr Lorimer,’ Dougie began, his voice a nasal whine. ‘It wis this man …’

It was over in less than half an hour. Dougie McAlister had been the runabout for The Pony Express, a rival firm of bookmakers that had wanted to muscle into Tony Jacobs’ empire so badly that they were prepared to kill to get what they wanted. With no evidence and no information from big brother Shug, who was currently serving time for the murder, the police had been hard-pressed to find the brains behind it all.

It had taken all of Lorimer’s self-control not to laugh out loud at the image of the Incredible Hulk handing over Dougie’s payment. Still, it was one of several leads they’d have to follow up. And with Forbes Macgregor being the financial adviser for both sets of bookmakers, Lorimer had no doubt they’d find plenty to keep their fraud boys busy.

George Parsonage watched as the well-dressed man struggled with the padlock. His curses and the way he wrestled with the door spoke of someone in a panic. George looked on with mounting curiosity. These old sheds that bordered the water had been closed up for years. Any day now and another bulldozer would flatten them to make space for more of the luxury flats that were marching down the length of the river banks. Few old structures remained these days. The riverman’s own blue-painted boathouses lay opposite his home across a sward of green, cropped grass, metal hulks that kept the weather out and the seventeen vessels safely under cover. His racing boats hung suspended from hooks on the beams; the trolleys to take boats over to the other side of the weir were always near the massive front doors. Today George had been busy with his latest sculpture, a figure of a rower for a friend’s birthday. But he’d stopped what he’d been doing and lifted his safety visor as soon as the call had come to pull a kiddie out of the water.

Now he was making his way back to where he’d left the trailer, a heaviness upon his spirit. The wee lad had only been trying to fish a football out of the water when he’d tumbled in. And this time it had been too late to save him. To distract himself from such thoughts, George stopped walking and watched the man disappear into the shed.

The sounds of distress that followed made him reach for his mobile.

He dialled the number, not needing to scroll it up. It was one he knew off by heart.

‘Get me DCI Lorimer,’ George whispered.

Alec Barr pushed the body on the floor with his foot. It gave a groan as his toe made contact with the man’s belly. Malcolm Adams gave a muffled yelp of pain.

‘Not long now. Soon put you out of your misery,’ he told the figure lying on the ground. ‘We’re going for a little ride, you and me,’ he said, heaving the man to his feet.

Adams was bound and gagged. His slight frame was nothing to Barr who slung him across his shoulders and carried him out across the narrow strip that divided the shed from the river. With one almighty effort, Barr threw the man’s body from him into the swirling waters. It landed with a splash and he watched it with satisfaction as it floated outwards into the current.

‘What the-’ he grunted as a hand shoved him aside and sent him sprawling across the stony bank. He was aware of a second splash of water as a man dived into the river and headed towards Adams. Picking himself up, Alec Barr began to run back up the towpath, away from the water’s edge, away from the scene unfolding below him. This wasn’t meant to happen! Where the hell had that guy come from?

Cursing, Barr turned into the main road and ran back towards the footbridge that would take him across the river and into Govan. Once there, he’d flag down a taxi.

The sound of police sirens made him look up. One car had already screeched to a halt. A tall figure that he recognized emerged from the vehicle and began shouting at him to stop, but Barr was running across the bridge now, running and running as if his life depended upon it.

The river below him swirled menacingly from the force of the swollen current. He could hear footsteps clattering behind him and, looking up, he saw two uniformed policemen waiting at the far end of the bridge.

‘Give it up, Barr,’ Lorimer yelled. ‘It’s over!’

Barr whirled around, baring his teeth at the man who was gaining on him, one step at a time. He snarled in response. He’d not be taken like a cornered beast.

In one quick movement he vaulted the railings and threw himself into the waters below.

Lorimer reached the middle of the footbridge just in time to see the man’s body tossed by the racing currents. He watched, aghast, as Barr flailed against the might of the river and then disappeared in a wallow of white foam.

The riverman was always careful when taking bodies out of the water. One slip and they’d be gone, sinking into the river’s murky depths. This one was heavy, water-logged and weighed down by death. They’d do a post-mortem. It was the routine thing to do, as well as being a legal requirement, but George Parsonage knew what the cause of death would be. Call it suicide, if you like, he thought as though he were addressing the pathologists at Glasgow City Mortuary.

He barely gave the body of Alec Barr a second glance as it lay in the folds of his boat. He knew this man’s story. He’d taken the easy way out, as many before him had done. Lorimer would fill him in with the details in time, no doubt. But for now as he rowed back to the van waiting on the shore, he could content himself with his own part of the story.

At least he’d saved one man’s life today.

The face that looked down at him was like an angel’s, Malcolm thought as he drifted back to consciousness. But it was a face wet with tears, although the smile was all sweetness. Behind her, he was aware of other figures, other faces that he seemed to know, but it was on Lesley’s face that he chose to fix his gaze.

‘Oh, Malcolm,’ was all she said, but in those two words he knew what a fool he’d been. There was no reproach, no condemnation, just love. He tried to smile back and sit up, but the pain drove him down again to the bank of pillows under his head. Somewhere he heard a nurse speak and the other people in the room disappeared, leaving him alone with Lesley.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘so sorry for everything.’

‘But why, Malcolm?’ Lesley was shaking her head. ‘Why did you get mixed up in all of that?’

‘Didn’t want you to be left … without anything,’ he murmured, every word a stab in his chest.

‘All I ever wanted was you.’ Lesley was crying again, and now he was aware of her hand in his, squeezing it tight. He tried to respond but the tiredness overwhelmed him and he began to drift back into that blessed sleep.

With an effort Malcolm gazed up at his wife and smiled.

‘I love you,’ he said, the words faint in the air between them, before he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

Lorimer closed the door as he left the room.

‘At least Malcolm Adams will never be charged with conspiracy to murder,’ he said to the man beside him. ‘That’s one thing his poor widow will be spared.’