Alex Gray - The Riverman

Behind her, the angled head of a CCTV camera continued to follow Liz’s progress, having already recorded her brief but visible walk along the river.

The last car door slammed shut, the doorman waving the revellers off before stepping inside the warmth of the hotel, the glass door closing behind him silently. At last he could knock off. That party had been going on for hours, folk wandering outside and back into the corporate area all blooming night. All the lights were still on in the mezzanine and would be until the cleaners came on duty. It was a right waste of electricity but none of his damned business. So long as the pay cheque kept on coming he’d keep his mouth shut.

The doorman did not turn to look out at the night or the faint mist that was rising from the river. There was no one to see the empty path or the wind catching the dead leaves and casting them upwards. Not a soul moved downstream or looked over the cold railing to where the river’s detritus bobbed darkly. There were no eyes to discern the shape that floated away from the embankment or watch its progress into the swirling waters of the Clyde. It was as if nothing had happened to disturb the ebb and flow of the waves moving between the banks of the river.

But there had been eyes to see that shape tumbling downwards and ears that had heard the muffled splash below. And somewhere in the city there was at least one sleepless soul replaying that moment over and over again.

‘You know who it is, then,’ George Parsonage said. It wasn’t a question. DCI Lorimer wouldn’t be here with Dr Rosie Fergusson and the Procurator Fiscal without a good reason.

‘Had a tip-off,’ Lorimer muttered, his eyes upon the sodden corpse lying on the quayside. The examination tent had been erected so that no passers-by could catch sight of the body, especially the press who would only add to the problem the DCI now faced.

George nodded. There would be a name and a history to this man lying dead on the banks of his river. Lorimer would let him know in due course if he asked. But George didn’t always want to know. Now that there was nothing more he could do for the victim his thoughts turned to Glasgow Green where his small fleet of boats awaited his attention and from where he might be called out again.

He cast off and let the boat drift with the tide, the figures on the bank becoming less significant as he plied his oars upstream.

‘D’you think it’s him?’ Iain MacKenzie, the Procurator Fiscal, looked at the senior investigating officer, intently waiting for a reply. Rosie Fergusson glanced up from where she knelt by the body.

Lorimer nodded at them both. ‘Certain. Fits our caller’s description to a T. Aye.’ His mouth formed a tight line against his unshaven face. ‘It’s Duncan Forbes all right.’

‘Looks like he’s only been in the water a few hours, maybe eight, or so,’ Rosie said.

‘Did he drown, though?’ the Fiscal asked.

Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘Million dollar question, isn’t it? Need to see what the PM shows. There’s no other obvious sign of injury though, is there?’

‘And the caller told us we’d find his body here,’ Lorimer mused slowly to himself. ‘Said there was something we should know.’

‘I wonder just what that was,’ the Fiscal remarked.

‘That’s what we’d like to know. The line went dead before the caller had time to finish speaking. At least that’s what it sounded like on the tape.’

‘And?’ Iain MacKenzie fixed his eyes on Lorimer’s face, waiting for him to elucidate.

‘It was a woman. Said we’d find Duncan Forbes in the Clyde near the Crowne Plaza Hotel. Gave a full description of his appearance and what he was wearing.’

‘Is that all? I mean, he could have fallen in. Jumped in, for that matter.’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘There was more to it than that. She was crying. Saying she was sorry. She didn’t mean it to happen.’ Lorimer looked up the Clyde towards Bell’s Bridge. High above the river a skein of geese flew eastwards, their cries muted by the morning traffic’s roar. He watched them until their flight became almost invisible against the pale grey clouds. They would come and go every morning, prompted by some ancient impulse to follow the same route between the estuary and their chosen feeding grounds. What, he wondered, had prompted the early morning telephone call that had them standing here over the body of Duncan Forbes?

‘Sudden, suspicious and unexplained,’ MacKenzie broke into his thoughts.

Lorimer nodded. ‘It might be a straightforward fatal accident but we wouldn’t have come down here unless we’d thought the call was genuine, would we?’ he replied, nodding towards the officers who were presently unfolding a body bag.

‘Or me.’ Rosie grimaced. ‘Who’s playing silly buggers with us, Lorimer?’

‘Well, not his wife anyway. When she was contacted she was beside herself. Said her husband hadn’t come home last night. Wanted to know what was going on. And, no, before you ask, Mrs Forbes has a completely different voice from our mystery caller.’

‘Well, let me get back to the mortuary. I’ll have this chap seen to as a matter of priority.’ Rosie smiled wanly, picked up her bag and fell into step beside Iain MacKenzie, away from the tall policeman who seemed in no hurry to leave the quayside.

Lorimer stared into the swirling waters of the Clyde. What had the riverman pulled out? A murder victim? Or some unfortunate soul whose last moments had been seen by the woman who’d called them? His reverie was disturbed by the sound of a zip encasing the corpse in the watertight bag. He looked down at the dark shape on the ground. Only hours before, this had been a living, breathing human being. What had happened to bring him to this?

Glasgow City Mortuary had the appearance of a small museum, dwarfed by the taller buildings of the High Court. Apart from the plaque fixed beside the entrance, a passer-by would never attach any morbid significance to the modest Victorian building.

Elizabeth Forbes hardly noticed the steps up to the entrance or the hand on her elbow, steering her gently into the place where her husband lay. Inside she had the impression of being closed in, the grey walls encircling her as she moved through the corridor. Then they were in a waiting room and several people introduced themselves to her in subdued tones.

Somebody spoke her name; they were trying to tell her something but she couldn’t hear the words. As if in a dream she allowed herself to be led out, her eyes fixed straight ahead to where they were taking her.

It was a small room with a large glass window obscured by pleated pink curtains and a potted palm in one corner. A small print of Monet’s garden at Giverny caught her eye, the long reeds obscuring the water below the bridge. They need cutting back, Liz thought, staring at the painting, reluctant to take her eyes off the green swirl of brushstrokes. She felt her arm being squeezed and her name spoken once more, as the family liaison officer gently eased her into a chair. On a table directly in front of her were two small television sets, side by side.

‘Just take your time. It’s the right-hand screen,’ the officer murmured. Liz turned anxiously to face this girl who was looking at her with such compassion, then swallowed hard as she turned towards the television.

The black and white image showed a bare room with a hospital trolley in the middle. Under its swathe of white lay the body of a man. Someone had lifted the sheet off the top end of the makeshift bed, revealing the man’s face. For a moment Liz felt pleased that the bedding was so clean and neat, the fold precise and square on the turned-back sheet.

It was Duncan. And she was looking down at him through this absurd television.