Never Somewhere Else (25 page)

Lorimer glanced at his watch.

‘Let’s have a think about this over
coffee, shall we?’ Lorimer smiled at his colleague, indicating the way upstairs to his office. There was plenty of time before he needed to be home preparing for George Phillips’s big night. He’d let the journalist sweat for a while in the interview room then politely ask his co-operation in a series of tests. To eliminate him from their enquiries. Tomorrow they’d stick a certain young DC on his tail for a while, just to see the company he kept. They weren’t finished with this one yet.

I
f he
couldn’t get any more on Brightman and the murders, then he could switch his attention to police methods, thought Martin viciously. He felt soiled by the contact with the interrogation room, with the specimens he’d had to give the Police Surgeon and, yes, if he was honest, he felt downright shit scared. Nothing in his journalistic life, however seedy, had prepared him for the personal experience of being a suspect in such a crime. In his worst nightmares, Martin could never have imagined the reality of being imprisoned in that ill-lit room, a police guard barring his escape while the power of these officers took decisions out of his hands. He even wondered if he’d be cautioned, charged, put in a cell and left to rot. The mind played strange illogical tricks when fear took over. Latterly there had been co-operation of sorts between the police Press Office and the newsdesk in covering stories. But now, Martin’s editor had snarled at him, he’d alienated the lot of them. And what had he got to show for it? Jangled nerves, a splitting headache and an assignment to cover some Glasgow councillors on the fiddle.

The journalist kicked his chair against the desk and loped out of the open-plan office, ignoring the raised eyebrows that glanced his way. He took the lift down to the ground floor and strode out into the street. Automatically he turned left and swung into the Press Bar. He might as well face the jibes sooner than later.

‘Hi, man.
They let you out then, did they?’

Davey was leaning back in his chair. It looked as if he had been craning his neck to see the television mounted on the wall. The All Blacks tour was on and Scotland’s players were facing their turn for annihilation.

‘Get the man a beer, Eddie,’ Paul from the sports desk was grinning over his shoulder, ‘he’s got a bad taste to wash away.’

‘Cheers, Paul.’

Martin sank down beside the photographer and waited for Eddie the barman to bring his drink. Davey was regarding him quizzically.

‘You all right, man?’

Martin nodded and swallowed. Did he really look as shaken as he felt? A swift glance around reassured him that Diane at least wasn’t there to witness his humiliation.

‘What did they ask you?’

Davey was watching the rugby but threw the question over his shoulder. Martin took the beer from Paul and swigged it down thirstily before he replied.

‘Easier to say what they didn’t ask. Wanted to know about my
hair
, of all things. Christ, what goes on with these guys? Seems they have plenty of traces to test for matches or something. But to think they thought that
I
had something to do with these girls.’

He drank again, looking down into the glass to avoid anyone’s eyes.

‘What
exactly have they got, really? I mean that fire must’ve finished it all off.’ Davey’s voice was scornful. ‘Oh come on boys, that was pathetic,’ he added as yet another scrum collapsed.

‘Well, I wasn’t exactly taken into Chief Inspector Lorimer’s confidence,’ Martin began, ‘but it’s obvious they’ve got something.’ Davey nodded, swinging back and forward in his chair. Martin went on, ‘If you ask me, the fact that I live in St Mungo’s Heights was the main reason they had me in. And the fact that I’d been doing a bit of sleuthing on my own.’

‘Oh yeah? Sherlock Enderby? Nah. Doesn’t sound right.’

Davey’s grin suddenly seemed to defuse the whole situation and for the first time that day Martin managed to raise a smile. The photographer finished his beer and slowly whirled round in his chair.

‘Tell you what, Marts. How about we go to the Ashoka for a carry out and take it back to your place?’ Martin shrugged as Davey added, ‘Can’t bear to watch the sight of blood any more. You know what a sensitive soul I am.’ A roar of disgust had gone up from the Press men watching the rugby. Scotland were being well and truly trounced.

‘Okay. A tandoori might just settle my guts.’

‘Right, then.’

Davey clapped him on the shoulder and they set off for the car park in the next street where Martin had left his car.

A pungent aroma met them as they pushed open the doors of the Ashoka and headed for the carry out counter. There was already a buzz of voices in the restaurant; Friday-night diners straight from work. Davey and Martin had been in this celebrated curry house plenty of times and knew the menus backwards.

‘How’re
you doin’, Ali?’ Davey addressed the Indian behind the counter.

‘Hallo, there. How are you?’ The man’s Glasgow accent was as thick as Davey’s own, not a trace of the Orient in his voice.

Eventually, weighed down with two chicken curries, fried rice and naan bread, the two men set off for St Mungo’s Heights. It had started to rain and the rush-hour traffic was becoming heavier. Still, thought Martin, it was the end of a shitty day and he still had Diane to look forward to. The thought of her slim body cheered him up immensely.

Martin parked in the space by the shrubbery. He had reversed in, ready for the journey across town later on. Davey was already out and heaving his bag of cameras after him.

‘C’mon, that smell’s gettin’ round my heart, as my granny would have said.’

Martin pushed his key into the lock and made for the lifts. Once inside the flat, he ignored the mess on the floor, headed straight for the kitchen and returned with two huge platters and a couple of forks. Davey sank into the sofa, pushing aside the empty McEwans cans with his boot as Martin spilled the curries carefully onto the plates.

‘Right. Doon heid, up paws, thank God we’ve jaws,’ the journalist intoned the old Scots Grace with relish.

This would wipe the taste of that interview room well and truly from his mouth.

‘H
ave you
seen my cufflinks?’

‘Which ones?’

‘The silver ones. You know. The square Rennie Mackintosh ones you gave me.’

‘Oh, those. In your top drawer.’

Maggie paused, the eyeliner brush held in midair, as she regarded her husband’s reflection in the mirror. He was a good-looking man, she thought to herself. Lorimer’s dress shirt was open, revealing a lean and desirable body. His thick hair, still damp from the shower, fell boyishly to one side. Maggie suppressed a sigh. It was so unfair that some men improved with age whereas almost every woman struggled in vain to keep some vestige of her youthful looks.

With renewed determination and a steady hand she outlined her eyes. The magazines all urged you to keep looking good for your man, she thought, with the veiled threat that he’d trade you in for a younger model if you didn’t keep up to date. Maggie normally dismissed this as a cynical marketing ploy on the part of the cosmetics companies but tonight, as she glanced at Lorimer who was concentrating on putting his cuffinks in the right way round, Maggie wondered if
she
would still be around on
his
sixtieth.

Her new
black spangled jacket lay on the bed. It had cost a packet but she wouldn’t let her conscience spoil the evening. Shaking her curls as if to dismiss the thoughts that irritated her like so many bad imps, she then sprayed herself liberally in a mist of Chanel No. 5. She would enjoy this party tonight.

‘Ready?’

Lorimer stood behind her, checking his bow tie in the dressing table mirror.

‘And waiting,’ she replied then stood up and extended her arm towards him.

Lorimer met her eyes, smiled then took her hand and kissed her fingertips.

‘Your carriage awaits, ma’am.’

Maggie scooped up the glittering jacket and smiled back, warmed by the approval in his blue gaze. A whole night together! This was going to be fun.

The hotel was crowded when they arrived. Maggie slipped off to the ladies room to renew her lipstick and Lorimer stood gazing into the groups of black-suited policemen, finally locating the huge figure of George himself. The Superintendent was laughing uproariously at something as Lorimer approached.

‘Ah, Bill, come and have a drink.’

They pushed their way through to the bar without difficulty. The guest of honour parted the waves of dinner jackets like Moses, thought Lorimer, and grinned at the big man towering over the bar. George Phillips might have his faults but he certainly made his presence felt.

‘Thanks,’ said
Lorimer, raising his glass. ‘Good health.’ And as an afterthought: ‘Happy birthday.’

George chuckled. ‘Happy retirement, you mean!’

The Detective Superintendent swallowed his malt thoughtfully then looked over Lorimer’s shoulder, gazing into the middle distance.

‘Where do they go? Sixty years!’ His eyes returned to his DCI and crinkled into a smile. ‘Still there’s life in the old dog yet. And,’ he added, ‘I won’t be out of your hair entirely.’

‘Oh?’

‘Wait and see. Got a few surprises up my sleeve.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows as though this were news to him but rumours had filtered down that George was likely to chair a new advisory panel into Drug Related Crime, the Chief Constable’s pet that gobbled up so much of their budget. That was fair enough but he just hoped that George would remember their stretched resources when it came down to murder inquiries.

‘Happy birthday, George!’

There was Maggie shimmering in that new evening outfit, kissing the big man on both cheeks.

‘Maggie! Ah, the sight of you does an old man’s heart good!’

Maggie giggled while Lorimer scrutinised her. She did look good, he thought, eyeing the black silk hugging his wife’s curves. There was a sparkle about her that wasn’t just an illusion created by the spangly blazer. It made Lorimer feel suddenly reckless.

‘How about a bottle of champagne?’

Maggie looked momentarily surprised then nodded. ‘Great idea. After all, you’ve got plenty to celebrate.’ She turned to George and twinkled mischievously at him.

‘Ah,
yes. Freedom. Slippers by the fire. I’ll think of you all when I’m hacking my way around the golf course.’

‘Quite right, too,’ Lorimer heard Maggie declare as he turned back to the bar to order a bottle of Moet.

As he raised the fluted glass to his lips, Lorimer couldn’t help wishing that they were celebrating more than George Phillips’s retirement. He’d have bought a crate of the stuff to toast their success in finding the St Mungo’s killer. He was never very far away from Lorimer’s thoughts. Somewhere on the edge of his mind hovered a shadowy figure with cropped dark hair swinging a silver bicycle chain. The voice on the
Crimewatch
tape played over and over in his mind. ‘Can you guess …’

‘Can you guess where George is going on holiday?’ Maggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Where?’

‘The Algarve, of course. All those golf courses.’ She put her head to one side. ‘We’ve never been there.’

‘Would you want to go?’

‘Not to play golf, but …’

Her voice drifted off and her eyes grew dreamy, no doubt picturing white Moorish houses smothered with purple bougainvillaea, thought Lorimer.

‘Just to have a holiday,’ she finished lamely.

Lorimer poured more champagne into their glasses then grinned wickedly.

‘On one condition,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘That you pack
this
into your suitcase.’

He gave
a gentle tug on the strap of her dress, feeling the weight of her breasts underneath. Maggie raised her glass in a salute.

Just at that moment there came a series of thumps and the Master of Ceremonies bawled out the command for dinner. Lorimer was glad that he and Maggie were not at the top table with George, who had included the Chief Constable and the Lady Provost among his guests. The Lorimers were at table two, he knew, with four other couples. He saw Alistair Wilson and his wife Betty, a professional cook who was as plump and cheery as he was slim and debonair. Also at the table was DCI Mitchison, an officer from George’s previous Division. Lorimer had come across Mitchison a couple of times at police seminars. He was one of these men who always did things by the book, Lorimer remembered. He didn’t drink and could be relied upon to bang on about delegating authority. Lorimer had taken an instant dislike to the man, who also had a much younger blonde in tow. They were already standing behind their seats as Lorimer ushered Maggie forward, squinting at the place cards and hoping he wouldn’t be next to the unknown blonde. He noticed, however, with surprise and not a little pleasure, that Ms Rosaleen Fergusson’s name was to his right. Good old Rosie! So long as she didn’t put the diners off with any professional anecdotes! Lorimer grinned then wondered who would be partnering the lovely pathologist this evening.

He didn’t have long to find out. He heard the wolf whistles first. Then Rosie appeared dressed in an outrageously short, white, strapless number, her hair caught up in a Grecian knot. With her was Dr Solomon Brightman.
Introductions were made, ladies ushered into their seats, and Lorimer heard himself make polite small talk with Betty Wilson on his left, who was already enthusing over the menu.

All conversations were hushed as the Selkirk Grace was given by the Chief Constable and Lorimer had a moment to reflect. Solly and Rosie. Well, well. He caught the pathologist’s eye and made a discreet thumbs-up sign.

The meal passed in a pleasant haze of passable wine, good food and better company than a Detective Chief Inspector usually enjoys. On the opposite side of the table his wife and Solly were in animated conversation; meanwhile Rosie was telling Alistair Wilson about her visits to Rwanda. Betty was explaining the use of herbs in cookery to the couple on her left, leaving Lorimer’s mind free to wander.