Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

Maggie closed the book on her desk as soon as the final bell rang then marched swiftly to the door to let out her Second years. One or two of them dawdled as they left, grinning at her in such a friendly manner that she didn’t have the heart to shoo them out into the corridor. But if she were to make it to the hospital tonight, she would have to hurry. The parking was murder and she had to figure out how long it was going to take so she would be there in time for the ward door opening. The phone call at the end of lunchtime had at least let her know what ward Mum was in now, she told herself, speeding down the stairs towards the main door. Comfortable, the voice on the other end had told her when she’d asked how her mum was feeling today. Maggie had bit her lip at that. It was like the kids saying Fine to their parents at home whenever they were asked how school had been that day: the sort of response that really told her nothing at all. She wanted to know more, much much more. Like what was going to happen to her mum. Would she recover from the stroke? What sort of remedial help would she have and, if they were honest, would she be able to cope on her own once discharged from hospital? Settling herself into the driver’s seat, Maggie turned on the ignition and headed for home, pondering what the future might hold for her. Would she have to give up her job to look after her mum? Or would the social services provide a carer of some sort? Suddenly Maggie realised how hazy she was on such details despite the topic of conversation coming up from time to time among her colleagues in the staffroom.

Maggie’s mum had always been the sort of strong, dependable person who’d laughed off illness and the knocks she’d had throughout her own life. Losing Maggie’s dad so soon after his retirement had been a blow but she’d soldiered on, shrugging off the state of widowhood since it was something that happened to so many older women, after all. But this was different. Seeing her so helpless in that hospital room had made Maggie realise for the first time just how vulnerable her mother was.

Almost seventy, Mrs Finlay was admittedly a bit overweight but she’d never smoked and only took a wee glass of sherry before dinner sometimes. And it wasn’t an illness that had any sort of history in their family as far as Maggie knew.

A car horn right behind her made Maggie see that she had almost overshot a red light. She braked swiftly, cursing herself for paying so little attention to the road ahead; wouldn’t be much use to her mum if she had an accident. Maggie Lorimer handled the rest of the journey with care, trying hard to keep her mind off what lay ahead at the seven o’clock visiting time. By five-fifteen, just as the traffic was building up to its usual stream of madness, she was able to cut off the motorway on to a slip road and head towards the supermarket. There was a list of things she needed to buy if they were to eat anything this week and she wanted some nice stuff to take into her mum, maybe one of these chocolate eclairs that she liked so much. Or was that such a good idea? Would the nurses have her on a diet now to help her lose weight? Maybe a bunch of grapes would be better after all.

‘It was horrible,’ Maggie told Lorimer some hours later. ‘The place is like a noisy zoo. And she looked so wee and frail under the bedclothes, not like herself at all. Not even as good as I thought she was yesterday.’

‘Can’t you ask someone to let her have a room to herself?’ Lorimer asked.

‘I suppose I should have thought about it. After all, you know what Mum’s always fond of saying: If you don’t ask, you don’t get. I’ll go earlier tomorrow and see if I can speak to the sister in charge of that ward. But, really, all I want is to get her out of that place.’

‘Is it really so bad? I mean, do you think there are any grounds for a complaint?’

Maggie shook her head. She was clasping a hot toddy that her husband had put into her hand, insisting that she needed to drink it after coming in shivering with cold and anxiety. ‘No, they’re all nice nurses. Treat the patients kindly and I’m sure Mum’s receiving adequate medical attention. But it’s that telly blaring out and the old women wandering around the ward like wee lost souls. It’s no place for a sick person to rest and recover,’ Maggie insisted.

‘Can’t promise anything, but I will do my best to come with you tomorrow,’ Lorimer told her, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving her the cuddle she needed.

‘How was your day today?’ Maggie asked, suddenly guilty that she hadn’t yet enquired.

‘Fine,’ Lorimer said, not seeing his wife’s rueful grin at the reply.

But, had he known it, this was the last word he would have applied to the days to come.

So, Detective Superintendent Lorimer was reopening the case. Just how good was he? And what would happen to the derelict site that had once been the handsome and much-envied home of Sir Ian and Lady Jackson of Kilmacolm?

Promises had been made. Promises to leave well alone and let the dead rest in peace, that well-worn phrase that was a catch-all for doing damn all about a cold case. Not that this one was more than slightly lukewarm. There were certainly no embers smouldering on the blackened ground around the wrecked house.

Overtures had been made to allow for a funeral to take place. But that hadn’t happened and the sense of things being in limbo had been overtaken now by this new turn of events. I’d made it my business to know about such things, not just from a sense of curiosity but from a sense of self-preservation.

It would be worth my while to find out a bit about this police officer from Glasgow. To see what he was capable of doing. And to see if he posed any particular threat to my own well-being, I thought as I pushed the pedal hard and cycled down the path, away from the fluttering rags of police tape.

Rhoda Martin slammed her locker shut. Things weren’t the same now that this Detective Superintendent had invaded their territory. By rights she should have been called up for promotion by now, particularly since Colin Ray’s abrupt retirement from the Force. And Katie Clark’s link with the tall officer who’d given her that gimlet stare was even more annoying. She’d hoped to have Lorimer more to herself, to be able to talk to him about the shambles of the case and how the way forward could be, as she saw it. Damn it, she’d spent hours of her own time making notes about how a review might be organised. But did he want her opinion? Did he hell! She was stuck with being allocator and working with all the actions from other folks’ statements and the forensic reports, such as they were. And hadn’t she tried her best to make sure this case was closed? Couldn’t they all just leave it alone? She’d known the Jacksons, she’d told Lorimer eventually. Serena and Daniel were people she’d grown up with. Okay, so she hadn’t mentioned any of that to DCI Ray. So what? Serena was her friend, she told herself. Rhoda didn’t want to upset her, did she? But had giving him that snippet of information made any difference to this cop from Glasgow?

The DI smoothed down an invisible crease on her dark skirt, shrugged on her jacket and turned to examine herself in the mirror. What she saw must have pleased her because a sudden smile appeared, transforming the discontented expression into a very attractive face. Her blonde hair was newly washed and straightened and she took it up in two handfuls, experimenting whether or not to pile it into a clip at the back of her head. Serena had looked good like that in magazine pictures. Rhoda let it go instead, watching as it tumbled around her shoulders. She had put on makeup before leaving home, carefully applying foundation and blusher to bring out her slanting cheekbones. Her green eyes were enhanced by smoky shadow and layers of waterproof mascara and now she rummaged in her bag for the little pot of lip gloss that always seemed to lose itself in the deepest corners.