one weekend and stay on till the final terminus, just to see what it was like. For now, all the views he could see were of shuttered premises each side of the street, with an occasional glimpse of the huddled masses across the river. The bus turned this way and that until it came to the road that ran parallel to the Clyde, stopping near the complex known as the Quay to disgorge a few passengers on their way to the cinema or casino. Then, trundling along past the famous Angel building — its winged figure towering loftily over the intersection of two main roads — the bus headed along through the newer flats of Govan, past the glass edifices of the BBC and Scottish Television until it snaked its way around Govan Town Hall and the old dockyards. It was too dark to see the water but Flynn could make out the light on top of the Science Centre, a red needlepoint against the cobalt sky.
When they reached the stop nearest to the Southern General, Flynn wasn’t surprised to see most of his fellow passengers rise to follow him. Visiting time would bring families from all over the city, he supposed, noticing a wee lassie holding her mammy’s hand and jigging beside her, singing some song that only she could understand. Maybe they were going to see a granny? Or was the wee one’s daddy in the hospital? Flynn quickened his step, anxious suddenly to see old Mrs Fin for himself.
PC Dodgson had been first on the scene, so it was only natural that the new SIO should ask to be taken up to Kilmacolm with him. But, thought Rhoda Martin, the new Super wasn’t giving her the place she ought to have in this review team. Why not ask her to join them? She seethed, watching as the dark blue Lexus headed out of the backyard and out of sight. Dodgson was a typical wee arse licker, just like that cow Clark. If she didn’t watch out they’d both be over Lorimer like the proverbial rash. And where would that leave her? Stepping back from the window, DI Martin heard her name being called.
She had loads to do for him, hadn’t she? So better make sure it was done efficiently. Not like the last time.
The road from Greenock ran steeply upwards, away from the coastline below them: Clune Brae seemed to teeter on a cliff edge before turning back inland to the gentler greener slopes of Upper Port Glasgow. Up here the morning mist had given way to a steady drizzle and, as they rounded a corner, a sharp blast of wind struck the car as if to remind them this Scottish winter was by no means spent.
‘You’d been coming in from this direction, on Port Glasgow Road?’
Dodgson nodded. ‘We’d been answering a call when I spotted the smoke. The trees thin out about here… see the gap? That’s where the cemetery is. The Jacksons’ house is about a quarter of a mile from the road. You can see — sorry, you used to be able to see the turrets through the trees in winter. Up here,’ he added indicating the two white posts to their left.
Masses of rhododendrons screened everything from their view as Lorimer drove towards the scene of the crime. It was a peaceful-looking place, made all the quieter by the dark bushes and stands of larches on either side of the drive, their needles soft fringes of pale gold on the damp ground.
When they rounded a bend Lorimer slowed down and stopped. The photographs of the crime scene didn’t do justice to this magnificent wreckage. He’d asked to see an original picture of the house but so far nobody had provided one. Still, he could imagine something of what it must have been like. The area in front of the mansion was a curving sweep of rabbit-nibbled lawn, the tarmac driveway running all the way around in a huge arc. What might have been a stable block or garaging for a fleet of cars lay to the right of the house, now a mere outline of walls and broken rafters. But it was the main building that drew the eye: a mass of grey rubble heaped below the remaining structure, its twin towers shattered and broken. It was, Lorimer told Maggie later, as if some petulant giant had taken a mallet and knocked the whole thing down. It looked so old already, he thought. Only a few weeks ago this had been a house, a home filled with the sound of human voices, and now all that was left was this mess of stones and blackened timbers. The enormity of the crime swept over Lorimer, suddenly making him feel a sense of outrage against whoever had decided to light that flame.
‘Show me,’ he told the young police constable, opening the car door at last.
The scene-of-crime tape was still in place despite a vagabond wind that threatened to take it skyward. Pushing it aside, Dodgson pointed to a heap of broken stones overflowing on to the dead grass. ‘That’s where the front door was,’ he told Lorimer. ‘When we got here the place was in flames but the upper floors were still okay. I mean, they hadn’t collapsed at that stage. The door was open and I tried to go in but it was impossible.’ He looked ruefully at Lorimer as if the senior officer might berate him for failing to enact a hopeless rescue.
‘You’re sure it was open?’
Dodgson nodded. ‘Later on the men from the fire service told us it could have been the heat that made the door burst open. Anyway, that was where the smoke seemed thickest.’
‘And from where you took that fume sample.’
‘Aye.’ Dodgson heaved a sigh. ‘We couldn’t do a thing so we just called the fire crew as well as our own HQ. We were told to keep back from the house in case anything collapsed. So that’s what we did.’
‘Not everyone can be a hero,’ Lorimer remarked mildly. ‘And you may already have done more than could have been expected of you.’
‘But the people!’ Dodgson blurted out. ‘They burned to death in there!’
Lorimer glanced briefly at the young officer; Dodgson had tears in his eyes that were nothing to do with this bitter February wind. Were they tears of remorse for being unable to do anything about the Jacksons? Or tears of rage at whoever had committed this crime? Suddenly Lorimer knew that this police constable shared his sense of outrage and was heartened by the knowledge that this was why they were both here, to push this investigation to its limits and bring someone to justice.
‘Can you spare a minute, sir?’
Lorimer looked up from the management policy file opened on his desk. DI Rhoda Martin had come into the room and, without waiting for a response, picked up a chair and set it down at an angle from him. As she crossed them, the DI revealed a pair of shapely legs in a skirt that would normally have been considered too short for a senior officer.
‘DI Martin, what may I do for you?’ Lorimer asked and immediately regretted his turn of phrase as he saw the salacious grin spreading across the woman’s face. It was then that he noticed the low-cut shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a froth of lacy bra and the hint of cleavage between her breasts.
Taking his glance as approval, Martin began to swing one leg up and down in a deliberately provocative manner.
‘It’s what I can do for you, Superintendent,’ she said.
Lorimer blinked, not willing to believe what his eyes were telling him. DI Rhoda Martin was coming on to him? How often had she done this to other senior officers? And, he thought cynically, was she quite practised in doing this to get what she wanted?
As his eyes narrowed into a frown, Martin quickly uncrossed her legs. ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you about my personal knowledge of the Jackson case,’ she said, wriggling in her seat and pulling aimlessly at the hem of her skirt. Her tone, he noticed, had immediately become businesslike.
Lorimer merely looked at her, his fingers tapping impatiently on the file as if to indicate that he had other important matters in hand. Let her become uncomfortable, he thought, allowing the silence between them to speak volumes; it’s no more than she deserves. But he was cursing the woman inwardly for adding more problems to their working relationship, even as she rattled on to cover her embarrassment.
‘I was at school with the two Jackson children,’ she told him. ‘I know Serena quite well and,’ she hesitated, ‘let’s just say that we all moved in the same social circles.’
Lorimer gave a brief nod. DI Martin’s background might prove relevant; then again, it might not. ‘What’s your point, Detective Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Well.’ The woman seemed at a sudden loss for words and Lorimer could see her thinking fast. She’d tried to come on to him and singularly failed. Now she was dreaming up a real excuse for sailing uninvited into his room.
‘I suppose I wanted to let you know that I could be of help,’ she said lamely, her cheeks suddenly pink with what might have been embarrassment or even anger.
‘There’s no mention of this in any previous report,’ Lorimer told her coldly. ‘Perhaps if you had seen fit to offer help to your previous SIO then he might have been grateful for some inside knowledge.’
