Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

It was better to go on foot for the first few days. That way much more could be observed. Cycling meant that things zipped past too quickly, and facts had to be absorbed if I were to make sense of the place and the person. So I walked across the muddy path, hood over my face against the February cold, hunched up under layers of clothing that were as much for disguise as for keeping out the chill. The corner house had been my first choice and when the woman closed her gate and headed off towards the flyover that crossed the main road to the shops, I slowed my step, following her at a distance. She was small and walked with a jerky step as if she had a pain of some sort. A recent hip replacement, maybe? It was pension day and some of the old people still trotted down to the post office every week rather than have their money paid directly into their bank accounts. Old habits died hard, I told myself. And perhaps this indicated that the old dear was a good age. I narrowed my eyes against a sudden gust of easterly wind, watching the woman stagger as it caught her. The older they were the weaker they became, I told myself; and all the more reason why they should be dispatched.

Freda hobbled down to the end of the slope. There was a huge, dirty puddle right at the bottom where the ground needed filling in by the council, but it had been there for so long now that she doubted whether it would ever be mended. She’d just have to take an extra big step across it; that was all. Her fingers trembled as she shifted the shopping bag from one arm to the other, reaching out for the metal railing. It might only be a few steps from the flyover to the entrance to the post office, but there was a broken bit of pavement to negotiate as well as these horrible self-opening doors that swung outwards at her.

Freda was aware of every potential hazard since her last fall. It had been such a simple thing, just missing her footing at the edge of the pavement then down she’d gone, breaking her leg as she’d crashed on to the hard concrete. There had been so many accidents lately involving older people. Like that one along from Jess Innes. No, Freda stopped in the middle of the street, pondering for a moment. Two had died. That was right. Two elderly ladies had fallen down their back steps not all that long ago. Terrible thing to have happened. Tommy next door had been on to the council to have rails put in at the back and front doors, but so far nothing had happened. You had to be on the social to get anything these days, Freda remembered him saying in that puffed-out exasperated way that he had, like a wee fighting cock. And it was true enough, she thought, stepping back to let the doors open fully before she entered the brightness and warmth of the grocery-shop-cum-post-office.

There was the usual queue of folk waiting for their turn at the counter and Freda turned to see if there was anyone she knew; having a wee blether with one of her friends would pass the time. But there was nobody, just a tall man stooping over the newspapers as if he couldn’t decide which one he wanted, and a couple of other folk by the display of greeting cards. Freda sighed. She’d go across to the Spar and buy a few things, just enough to tide her over the weekend. And maybe a quarter pound of mince from the butcher’s. A shepherd’s pie would last her at least two meals, wouldn’t it?

As Freda Gilmour left the post office she had no sensation of being followed. No extra sensory element within alerted her to the eyes that watched her every faltering step, nor did she feel the weight of malice that had begun to bear down upon her small, slight person.

Lorimer had not forgotten Colin Ray’s words, nor was he particularly afraid of pushing this investigation into the delicate area of internal police matters. But other aspects of the case had taken up his time and it was only today, at the start of this new week, that his thoughts turned to the Chief Constable of Strathclyde. Sir Robert Caldwell, the previous Chief Constable who Lorimer had respected and liked, had retired to his holiday home in Bute and the present head of their force was someone he knew less well. David Isherwood was a man in his late forties who had come to them from the Grampian Region. Whether he missed the cold easterly winds or not, Lorimer couldn’t say, but Isherwood’s choice of home had been the village of Kilmacolm, a place that seemed to have its own particular climate. Every wintry spell appeared to be more biting up there than in other villages; even the annual rainfall was greater, according to the officers who knew the area.

Oddly enough, the fact that Isherwood lived in Kilmacolm was one thing about the Chief Constable that Ray had forgotten to tell Lorimer, and Lorimer felt curious about the omission. Had Ray still been reticent about his anxiety to follow the Chief Constable’s advice? Or was there more to it? Perhaps, Lorimer told himself, putting pressure on Ray had been no more than a desire on the part of the recently-promoted Isherwood to keep his own name out of the newspapers. Being a resident of the same village where a major crime had taken place could have unpleasant repercussions. But Lorimer wondered if it was more than that. Colin Ray had given him the impression that he had been warned off investigating any of Sir Ian Jackson’s known associates. Now, what had made Isherwood issue such a directive? Perhaps, thought Lorimer, looking at the grey skies over Greenock Harbour, today was a day to find that out. His appointment with Isherwood was at eleven o’clock. A wee trip back up the M8 to Glasgow would suit him just fine.

It was not long before the river became a haze of grey with dim shapes of cranes obscuring the horizon, the motorway eventually swinging across from south to north and into the heart of the city. Lorimer noted the massive changes that had been wrought in Glasgow’s topography in recent years. Now more bridges than ever criss-crossed the dark waters in an attempt to stem the tide of traffic that flowed across the M8’s Kingston Bridge. The Clyde Arc (nicknamed the ‘Squinty Bridge’ by locals) served the area between Govan, where the television studios had made their home among rows of designer flats, and Finnieston with the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre on its doorstep. A new footbridge had also been built on the site of a former chandlery between Broomielaw and the Quay, allowing a passage from the newer homes bordering the south shore to the older part of the city. But some things never changed, Lorimer thought, glancing at some familiar shapes on the skyline. Glasgow University still dominated the cityscape, its peculiar spiked tower piercing the skies, reminding Lorimer of the path he might have taken had he remained a student of Art History.

The road swept round in a curve, taking him along Bothwell Street. He was almost home, he thought, surprised at the notion. He gave a wry grin at his reflection in the driving mirror. That was almost true. After all, hadn’t he spent more time in A Division than anywhere else in his career? And he missed the place and the people there, he suddenly realised. It was unusual for a police officer to be in one Division for so long, and perhaps this secondment would take him away from his Glasgow base for good. If full promotion to Detective Superintendent were to take place, he’d have very little option but to go where he was sent. He’d miss them, though, these people who had become his friends — like Detective Sergeant Alistair Wilson and even the wee woman in the canteen, Sadie Dunlop, whose politically incorrect remarks were dished up to every officer regardless of their rank.

He parked the car on a hill and walked along to Pitt Street, pulling his coat collar up against a blustery wind that was sweeping in from the east. The red brick building dominated the corner of the block as well it might. Strathclyde Police Headquarters housed much of the expertise that was used in the detection of major crimes, as well as the most senior officers who administered the various departments. As he entered the building, the first hailstones began to fall, pattering icy bullets on the dry pavement.