Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

And the Chief Constable had taken this line as well. Look at the low-life in Port Glasgow, he’d told Colin Ray. Lorimer’s jaw hardened. There were bad elements in every town, though statistically Kilmacolm could expect its own share to be very low indeed. Especially when the head of Strathclyde’s police force lived there himself. And yet, the Chief Constable, David Isherwood, had issued orders for Colin to come up to see him in Pitt Street rather than ask him to visit him at home. Why? Wouldn’t he want to keep it unofficial if there was anything dodgy about his request? Lorimer mused. And if there was, Isherwood wouldn’t want his own name contained within the pages of this file, would he?

There was something unsavoury about this, Lorimer thought, tapping his front teeth with a pencil. Why tell DCI Ray not to look among Jackson’s associates? Was there something Isherwood knew? And if so, was it worth him risking asking questions at that level?

He was acting Detective Superintendent, a role that would probably lead to a permanent promotion if he were to succeed in this review.

A thought suddenly came to Lorimer. Was that why he had been seconded to the job in the first place? There were surely a few other Detective Superintendents who could have been posted to Greenock’s HQ to tackle this one. And of course it had to be someone higher than a DCI, Colin Ray’s own rank. Lorimer bit his lower lip as this new idea took hold. Did they think that his temporary promotion would make him all the more eager to toe the line? Was he simply being used to keep the lid on things? A can of worms, Colin Ray had suggested. Aye, well, maybe it was. Giving a sigh, Lorimer knew that, despite his wife’s delight at the thought of his promotion, he’d be ready to risk that to get a result in this case. Maggie Lorimer might well live to be disappointed but he wasn’t going to let anyone, Chief Constable or otherwise, stand in the way of doing his job.

The tannoy sounded loudly in his ear, breaking the chain of thought. Someone was looking for DI Martin at the front desk. Lorimer frowned. This review didn’t take priority over any new crimes being committed for the officers in Greenock and he could easily lose some of his personnel if something major cropped up.

There was a knock at his door and the cheery face of DC Kate Clark appeared. She tugged ineffectually at the smock top covering her swelling body as she approached Lorimer’s desk.

‘Been a murder, gov,’ she said in her best Taggart voice, mimicking the phrase associated with the long-running TV police drama. Then, sitting down on a chair without being invited, Kate gave a groan. ‘This wee blighter’s been playing football in there all morning.’

Lorimer smiled at her. It was refreshing to have someone like Kate around: for others it might mean the nuisance of the woman being off on maternity leave fairly soon, but it gave Lorimer a sense of normality. Birth and new life was a wholesome contrast to the sort of work they did, often involving violent deaths.

‘Does that mean I’m to lose all of my best officers for today?’

Kate shrugged. ‘DI Martin’s away to the scene just now. An old lady’s been mugged at her own home; or so her neighbour seems to think.’

The woman’s tone gave no indication that she felt anything for the victim. But in this job an officer had to maintain a detachment from the tragedies that occurred each day. Start feeling sore at every crime that came along and you’d end up a basket case, Lorimer remembered one of his lecturers at Tulliallan saying. And it was true. But it hadn’t stopped him having feelings for the victims in his own cases. Feelings of outrage, sometimes; feelings of pity for a life cut short. And shouldn’t there be some heartache for an old person too? Especially one who had been brutally attacked.

Lorimer’s thoughts turned to Maggie’s mum. How would they feel if it had been her?

DI Martin saw that the blood had not been completely washed away by the thunderstorm, though some of it had been watered down by the driving rain.

‘Jean Wilson’s her name, Ma’am,’ the uniform offered. ‘Her son’s on his way over here from his work now.’

‘Okay. Get family liaison on to it, will you,’ Rhoda ordered. ‘And see if the doctor wants a pathologist over here as well.’

There was a small group of people gathered at the foot of the stairs, surrounding the body. Attempts had been made to conserve the scene of the crime and treads had been placed from the entrance of the house through the hallway and kitchen out into the back garden where the victim lay on the concrete slabs. Rhoda Martin seethed inwardly. The Detective Sergeant who was usually the scene of crime manager (and responsible for keeping everything as intact as possible for forensics) was at a funeral, leaving her in charge. It was demeaning, she told herself. She should be the SIO in the case, not the crime scene manager. It was all Lorimer’s fault, taking staff away from them, she decided pettishly. Still, she’d put her name on this one if nobody more senior turned up. And delegate all this stuff to the DS when he came back from the crematorium.

A neighbour had called the police. A woman putting out rubbish in her bin had caught sight of the old lady lying there on the patio. She was back inside her own home now, having tea poured into her by one of the uniforms. Rhoda would have a word with her as soon as she was free here. A large tarpaulin tent was being erected now around the body, the gusting wind threatening to blow the whole thing sideways. Further along the rows of back gardens she could see one or two figures standing, watching the process. Nosy beggars, she thought to herself, wanting to go across and shout at them to mind their own bloody business. They’d be door-stepped soon enough, their fascination with this crime scene tempered by the routine questioning from police officers. At the top of one set of back steps two white-haired women stood, huddling together, their faces turned towards the scene three houses along from them. The gardens were separated by low wooden fences, easily stepped over by neighbours seeking a short cut to visit. Or by someone hoping for a quick getaway, Rhoda thought.

‘Did she fall or was she pushed?’ A voice behind her made Rhoda turn to see DS Wainwright.

‘The pathologist’ll let us know in due course, if we’re to call one out, but it looks to me as if it could just be an accident.’

‘Any reason to think otherwise?’

‘Och, the woman who rang us up said her neighbour had been mugged. The sight of all that blood must’ve made her panic.’

‘Right. But you’re obviously not taking any chances, are you?’ Wainwright’s eyes found Rhoda’s own and she gave him a little smile. They all knew she’d taken too many chances when DCI Ray had been in charge and now it was time to exert a little more caution, especially with Lorimer in the background.

Gary Wilson sat slumped in the chair of his mother’s sitting room. Someone had switched on the electric fire and its artificial coals were glowing in the hearth but even that couldn’t stop the trembling. His hands were round a mug of hot sweet tea and he’d drunk most of it without realising. Now he held onto it as if it were the most precious thing in the whole room. A uniformed policeman had spoken to him on his arrival and later there was this older woman, talking quietly to him and giving him some of the facts of his mother’s sudden death. He’d cried when he’d seen her body; face down on the patio, her legs splayed at an awkward angle, rain soaking through her skirt and tights.

The questions were still coming at him and he only nodded or shook his head, not trusting his voice to speak. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced before. Dad’s death had been a call in the night from the hospital and a quiet bedside farewell with whispering nurses hovering around him, painless and sanitised, not like this.