Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

But it was over in a matter of seconds, the pair mouthing obscenities as the two officers led them out into the waiting van.

Between panting breaths, the policeman cautioned the girl who was still struggling in his grasp. ‘Ann-Marie Monahan…’

Once in the van Duncan turned to his neighbour. ‘Better get that seen to,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the wound on the other man’s wrist. ‘Never know where she’s been.’

Lorimer took the stairs two at a time, straining his ears to hear what was going on. Officially he knew nothing about McGroary, so he would have to feign ignorance to begin with. And he didn’t have long to wait.

‘Hear the latest, sir?’ Young Dodgson had spotted Lorimer in the corridor and his eager face shone with the excitement of an officer who is part of a case that looks as if it is coming to a good conclusion. Lorimer knew that look. It was an adrenaline rush that made officers hyper even when the hours had made them bone-weary and cranky, wishing for a warm bed and some much needed kip.

‘We brought in a suspect for the old lady’s death,’ Dodgson continued. ‘DI Martin and DS Wainwright are interviewing him right now. Seems he thought he was being busted for dope.’ Dodgson went on to describe the girlfriend’s assault on one of the police officers and McGroary’s panic.

Lorimer nodded. ‘Great. Hope they get a result.’ He paused. Did DI Martin ask for me? he wanted to say. But of course he couldn’t bring himself to utter those words. McGroary might well be involved in the Jackson case and of course Martin would bring him into the interview situation. Wouldn’t she? Lorimer hesitated then gave Dodgson a smile before stepping into his office. Sitting behind the desk, he drummed his fingers on the scored wooden surface, wondering.

It was more than an hour before the call came but, when it did, Lorimer was propelled from his chair and left the room in seconds.

Interview Room Two was the usual nondescript box of a room that would be found in any police station. The soundproof panels were one shade away from the colour of tea biscuit and the well-disinfected floor could only be described as manky brown. The room’s only concession to colour was the blue chairs placed either side of the cheap fake-wooden table. There was no point in spending much on furnishings that could be thrown around by some mad bastard in a drunken fit of rage — and frequently were. Neither was there a fancy glass wall that gave access to one-way viewing. Such luxuries belonged firmly in the realm of TV cop shows, not in the real world down in Greenock Terminal.

‘Superintendent Lorimer has entered the room,’ DI Martin intoned, her face towards the black boxes sitting at the side of the table next to the wall.

Lorimer stood for a moment, looking at the man sitting opposite.

David McGroary was slumped into his chair, the dark tracksuit already showing patches of sweat under the armpits. His arms were folded belligerently across his chest in a typical stance of defiance against the authority that DI Martin represented. Lorimer noticed the man’s medium build, the legs thrust under the table and the filthy trainers crossed at the ankle. A mulish expression around his mouth made the detective wonder if McGroary had wearied his inquisitors with a series of No comments. It happened so often and could frustrate even the most patient of officers. But a quick glance at Rhoda Martin showed that, despite two spots of colour on her high cheekbones, the woman looked remarkably unruffled.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she told Lorimer. ‘He’s yours for now.’

‘Thank you, Detective Inspector,’ Lorimer replied smoothly and sat down in the chair she had vacated before switching the tape back on and announcing, ‘DI Martin has left the interview room.’

DS Wainwright remained in the room, his chair slightly to one side as if to be ready to leap up and grab the prisoner if anything became violent. Lorimer smiled a wintry little smile to himself. He’d put money on Wainwright over McGroary any day, he thought, looking from the detective sergeant’s prop forward physique to the layers of fat rolling over the waistband of McGroary’s joggers.

‘David McGroary, I’m Superintendent Lorimer from A Division in Glasgow,’ he began, his tone polite and with the tiniest hint of deference.

At the word Glasgow, the man opposite unfolded his arms and sat up a little bit straighter. The big city obviously commanded a modicum of respect from the folk down here, Lorimer guessed. Either that, or his main dealer was from outside the district.

‘I have been sent here to continue an inquiry into a house fire in Kilmacolm. The home of your previous employer, Sir Ian Jackson,’ he said, gazing steadily at McGroary in a way that made him look back. A flash of uncertainty crossed the prisoner’s grey eyes and Lorimer saw the doubt in the parted lips and the worry frown appearing between his brows. He knows he’s a suspect, Lorimer told himself. Let’s see if he’ll crack enough to give us what we want. In that nanosecond the notion of winding up this case and heading back home to Glasgow suddenly washed over Lorimer. But such thoughts were as tempting as the very devil. Nothing should influence him right now. Nothing but a need for the truth. Martin had to find whoever had killed those old ladies from Port Glasgow but it was his remit to focus on a very different case. And was this man, sitting sweating before him, a possible suspect?

‘It would help us very much if you were willing to tell me about your relationship with Sir Ian,’ Lorimer said.

‘What relationship?’ McGroary answered with a derisory snort. ‘He wis ma boss, okay?’

‘And he fired you, right?’

McGroary nodded.

‘Mr McGroary has signalled his assent to that question,’ Lorimer told the black box. ‘And you decided to indulge in a little firing of your own, perhaps?’ he asked, the tone so smooth that McGroary’s mouth fell open. Then, as the words dawned on him, he slammed the flats of his hands on to the table, making it shudder.

‘No way! Yer no goin tae stitch me up fir that. Ah wis nowhere near the place when it happened!’ He was leaning forward now, breathing heavily and staring back into a pair of blue eyes that regarded him steadily.

‘And where exactly were you, Mr McGroary?’ Lorimer asked, not moving from his position, hands still clasped loosely in front of him.

Something about this detective’s tone must have disarmed him, for Davie McGroary began to frown and bite his lips nervously, evidently unsure of just what was going on now that the tall superintendent from Glasgow had taken over from the blonde woman.

‘I wis at hame. Ask Anne Marie. She’ll tell ye.’ The man’s eyes darted from Wainwright to Lorimer and back again and this time Lorimer saw an expression that he recognised quite easily. It was fear.

‘Certainly, Mr McGroary, we’ll do that. And easily enough since Miss Monahan isn’t too far away at present.’ Lorimer allowed the ghost of a smile to appear on his face, knowing that this would only add to the prisoner’s confusion. Whatever tactics of interrogation DI Martin had employed, his own methods were certainly working.

‘To get back to Sir Ian and Lady Pauline,’ he said. ‘You had been dismissed for a misdemeanour at your place of employment. ’ Lorimer smiled again, this time as if sharing a joke. ‘It must have been a bit of a blow, surely?’

‘Ach, he wis out of order. What wis the harm in takin a piss? Aye, I wis annoyed. Who wouldnae be? But no enough tae set fire tae his hoose and kill him. C’mon, man, that’s mental!’ McGroary shifted in his chair again, the arms folded once more and the eyes a shade less wary.

‘But you were annoyed?’