Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

‘Sir Ian and Lady Pauline. You knew them well, Betty?’

‘Oh, aye. There’s not a one in here that wee Betty disnae know,’ she crowed, lifting up her teacup and giving Lorimer the merest wink.

‘So you would know who their friends were and what sort of family the Jacksons were?’

The older woman regarded Lorimer thoughtfully then set down her teacup with a little sigh. ‘Aye, there’s not much that passes me by in this place. Why d’you think Mrs Hutcheson was so ready to pass you on to the wee cleaning lady?’ She smiled as though she had made some sort of joke.

‘And you’ll know all the gossip as well?’ Lorimer grinned back, encouragingly.

‘It doesnae do tae speak ill of the dead,’ Betty told him sternly, her expression immediately serious.

‘I’m not asking you to do that, Betty,’ Lorimer said quietly. ‘But if I’m ever to find out what happened that night of the fire I need to know as much as possible about the Jacksons.’ He looked straight into her grey eyes, holding her in his gaze. ‘What did they do? Who were their friends? Was there any earthly reason for someone to set fire to that house?’

‘Och, there’ve been fires here afore noo. I mind a spate o’ burned oot motors years back. An’ then there wis that caravan. Terrible thing. See,’ she nudged Lorimer with her elbow once more, ‘some vandals set this caravan alight. It wis thon gas canister thing, ye know. The neighbours had tae get the family oot. An’ a baby an’ all. In a room right next tae where the caravan wis at the side of the driveway. I mind that yin well. Oor lassie lives roon the corner frae the hoose.’

‘The Jacksons,’ Lorimer reminded the woman. ‘What can you tell me about them?’

The sigh that Betty MacPherson gave now seemed to come from the depths of her soul. With a shake of her head she looked away from Lorimer and out of the window as if to see something in her mind’s eye. ‘Och, I suppose it won’t do any harm to them now to tell you. Dead is dead, after all.’ She reached down for her cup and drained the last of the tea before continuing. ‘Pauline wasn’t as well thought of as folk make out. Nice lady and all as she was — and she was aye polite tae me — there were quite a few in here’ — she jerked her thumb in the direction of the people in the next room — ‘that didnae approve of her relationship. ’

Betty leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘She wis seein’ a bit too much of thon fella frae the works. That wis what they all said. Know whit I mean? I cannae say masel if she wis actually.. well, you know… but it was all the talk around the village.’

‘What fellow?’

‘The wee man, Tannock. Sir Ian’s partner. They were havin’ an affair, so it wis said.’

Lorimer frowned. Surely that was malicious gossip? Somehow he couldn’t imagine Hugh Tannock and his partner’s wife… Then a sudden memory came back to him of the man’s display of grief during Lorimer’s visit. Had it been the mention of Pauline Jackson that had sparked off the man’s emotion?

‘You don’t believe me? Aye, well, I can see why. They were nae whit ye wid call a braw match. Her bein’ that nice looking and him a richt wee bachle o’ a man. But it’s whit’s in yer hert that counts, isn’t it?’ Betty’s bright bird-like eyes caught his own and for a moment he sensed the woman’s underlying sympathy. ‘Well, doesnae matter now, does it?’ she continued, setting down her teacup. ‘And that wee man wouldn’t have wanted tae hurt Lady Pauline, I can promise ye that, Mr Lorimer,’ Betty insisted.

‘Did Sir Ian know about this?’

‘Well if he didn’t then he must have been blind and deaf. But then, they do say the spouse is always the last tae know, don’t they?’

‘What about the Jackson children?’

‘Och, they wouldnae know whit wis goin’ on. Thon Serena didnae know the time o’ day never mind whit her mother got up tae at the golf club. She wis far mair interested in goin oot tae parties an that. All dolled up. Don’t get me wrang,’ she turned to look at Lorimer suddenly, ‘nice enough lassie. Bonnie, too. But a wee bit of a want, if you get my drift. Not quite the full shilling, as my old maw used tae say.’

‘And Daniel?’

‘Ah, now there’s a man for you. How that pair ever produced a boy like Daniel I’ll never know. First in his class at school all the time. Always top at sports an’ all. Mind you, the lassie was sporty as well, come tae think on it.’ Betty nodded thoughtfully. ‘But such a lovely lad! Had his ain sports car, his big hoose in the toon. Aye, a real success that one. Will he take over from his faither, d’you think?’

Lorimer gave a small shrug in reply. ‘So you think that Daniel Jackson had no idea that his mother and father’s marriage was a bit shaky?’

‘Oh, now I didnae say that. I’m sure their marriage was fine. I don’t think the wee Tannock fella would’ve upset that. It was jist a..’ She searched for the word.

‘A fling?’ Lorimer suggested.

‘Aye, something like that. And I don’t think that Daniel would have known anything about it. He and Mr Tannock were pals. Used to go cycling together with Serena every Sunday afternoon. See, Daniel and Serena were’nae golfers like their folks.’

Lorimer only half listened as Betty went on about the golfing fraternity in Kilmacolm’s club. The Jackson children and Tannock were all cyclists. It was a hugely popular sport, after all; those familiar lines of figures in racing colours weaving in and out of weekend traffic were surely testament to that. And yet, this bit of information suddenly made his pulse beat a little faster.

Number 10A Greenlaw Crescent was a mid-terrace house fronted by a patch of unkempt grass, its sagging fence to one side showing years of neglect. A dirty football lay abandoned in one corner, but it was clear from the circular dark marks around the letterbox that someone had been thumping it off the once white-painted door. The curtains at the front were partially closed against the darkness, a flickering light from within showing that the television was on.

‘Think our old pal will be at home, then?’ PC Rab Duncan asked his neighbour.

‘We’ll soon see,’ came the reply.

Three thumps from a meaty fist were all it took for the door to open. A thickset figure dressed in black started at the sight of the policemen but just as the man made to close the door, the police officer wedged a size eleven boot into the open space.

‘David McGroary?’ Duncan had shouldered his way in and was now standing in the dimly lit hallway. The pungent smell of cannabis drifted towards him.

‘Aye, ye ken fine,’ McGroary replied, his lip curling in a pretence at bravado.

‘We’d like to invite you to accompany us-’ Duncan began, but before he could continue McGroary turned as if to make off down the passageway but tripped over a discarded holdall in his haste to escape. The dark blue bag burst open, its contents scattering over the floor. Duncan grinned at the sight: he’d been around long enough in this neck of the woods to know what a cache of drugs looked like.

‘Ann-Marie. Polis!’ he yelled, but before he could hit the floor, Duncan grabbed him by the bottom of his nylon jacket, pulling him upright.

‘Take yer haunds off of me, will ye!’ Davie McGroary yelled, jerking his body sideways in an attempt to resist the strong arms of the law.

‘Leave him alane ye big basturts!’ A small dark figure flung itself into the fray, yanking the sleeve of the other officer who was attempting to cuff McGroary. The sound from her throat was a deep animal growl as she lunged at the policeman, sinking her teeth into the fleshy part of his wrist.

‘Ann-Marie, get him aff me!’ McGroary urged, swinging his body away from PC Duncan, who held him fast.