He had stayed for more than half an hour after that, seeking gently to prise more information about the Jackson parents from a son who had so obviously cared about them. But despite listening to childhood reminiscences and the success of Jackson Tannock, Lorimer found out little more than the dark hints he’d been given about the men from Ian Jackson’s past. If the daughter was stricken with grief and still suffering from shock, then her brother had dealt with his loss in a more controlled and pragmatic way but, oddly enough, Daniel had been the one to display more emotion.
Lady Jackson had not excited anyone’s imagination regarding the fire, he thought. Her high-profile husband was the more likely target of any vicious attack. Yet, why should she be so discounted? After all, crimes had been committed for reasons of passion and she had been a highly attractive woman. Lorimer shook his head. Not a single part of Colin Ray’s investigation had focused on the background of the woman other than as the corporate wife. And in Lorimer’s book making such basic assumptions was always a mistake.
CHAPTER 18
Lorimer was just about to turn the car from the cobbled lane into the yard when he braked hard to stop for a cyclist emerging from the police car park. It was a woman, but she wasn’t wearing the familiar sulphur-yellow protective waterproofs that all officers wore on cycle duty. Instead she sported a tightly fitting red jacket over black cycle leggings. He looked up for a second as she passed him, then looked again just to be certain. Yes, right enough, it was DI Rhoda Martin pedalling away from the building. A quick glance at his digital clock showed it was in fact lunchtime and he wondered whether the DI was off on some personal business.
‘That’s DI Martin?’ Lorimer smiled at the duty officer as he passed through the public office.
‘Aye, she’s off for a wee run. Has to get in practice for the race, y’know,’ the burly sergeant replied, indicating the ‘On Yer Bike’ poster on the wall.
‘Ah.’ Lorimer nodded, understanding suddenly. ‘Are there many officers from this division taking part?’
‘Aye, a few: the ones that are usually out on duty on their bikes and some from the local cycle club. DI Martin’s a member there.’
Lorimer digested this information as he mounted the stairs that would take him to his temporary office. Perhaps he should mention this to Kate Clark, if she was still keen to hunt up the cyclist that had been stalking that old lady.
As if his thought had taken substance, DC Clark emerged from her room at the very moment Lorimer turned the stairs.
‘Kate, a wee word,’ he said, motioning for the woman to follow him into his room.
He switched on the light against the sudden squall that had darkened this side of the building, which overlooked the river. ‘Sit yourself down. Now, I just saw DI Martin riding her bike. Did you know she was a cyclist?’ Lorimer began.
‘Well, yes. In fact I thought she’d be able to nose around a bit if we took the stalker thing seriously. But maybe we won’t have to!’ There was a triumphant gleam in the DC’s eye as she settled her bulk more comfortably into the chair next to Lorimer’s desk.
‘See, I’ve a nice little association with this taxi driver who keeps tabs on things for me. And I asked him to put the word out about the cyclist in case anyone had seen him following the old lady.’
‘And?’ Lorimer could feel a palpable excitement emanating from the woman.
‘And he told me something very interesting.’ Kate grinned, obviously relishing her tale.
‘Aye, come on, then.’
‘Well,’ she leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I was just coming to let you know this minute as it happens.’ She edged her chair towards him. ‘The night of the Jacksons’ fire one of the local taxi drivers was taking a fare back to Kilmacolm when they nearly collided with a cyclist fleeing down Port Glasgow Road. As if all the bats of hell were after him, was what he said, apparently. And guess what?’
Lorimer smiled, infected by her enthusiasm.
‘The cyclist looked as if he’d just come out of the drive at the foot of the Jacksons’ house.’
Lorimer’s smile faded. ‘Time?’
Kate nodded. ‘Just a wee while before the alarm went up.’
‘So this cyclist…?’
‘Could have been leaving the scene of the crime!’ Kate finished for him, her eyes shining.
Lorimer shook his head slowly, not in disbelief but at the way this had come to light. It wouldn’t be his first experience of finding a piece of evidence during the investigation of a different case in the same district. It happened all the time. That was one of the advantages of having a good relationship with local informants.
‘Don’t suppose there was a decent description of the cyclist?’
‘No chance. It was too dark to see much. The taxi driver was just glad he hadn’t hit the guy.’
‘And the passenger?’
‘A local businessman. Here’s his name and address. He has an account with the taxi firm.’
‘Mike Reynolds,’ Lorimer read, once Kate had passed him the piece of paper she’d been carrying.
‘Want to follow this up? See if he can remember anything about the cyclist? It’s a long shot, mind you,’ Lorimer told her. ‘The address is Kilmacolm, Lochwinnoch Road; think I might have driven along there one time,’ he mused. Lochwinnoch was home to one of the RSPB’s reserved and Lorimer and Maggie had been out there several times on field trips. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.
‘Well, sort of. It’s one of the roads with these huge big houses. Like a lot of the village up there.’ She grinned. ‘They do say it’s the place with the most expensive real estate in the whole of Scotland.’
It was a nice change to be out of the office, Kate thought, humming to herself as she drove into the village of Kilmacolm. The road wound up from Port Glasgow, twisting and turning before easing out over an expanse of moorland on either side. Few houses could be seen along this desolate part of the countryside and Kate shivered at the low clouds on the horizon threatening snow, then gave another shudder as she passed the dark gap on her left just before the cemetery gates. She’d seen enough of the scene of crime photographs to imagine what it must have looked like in the aftermath of that fire and was thankful that it was not within her remit to go up the shadowy drive.
Lochwinnoch Road led Kate through the heart of the village, past rows of shops and over an ancient railway bridge. She had telephoned the Reynolds house, not expecting any reply, and had been surprised to find from his wife that Mr Reynolds would be at home during the afternoon. Yes, she could come up and speak to him, the woman reassured her.
Later Kate would report back that she had little to tell. But she had stayed long enough to enjoy a good cup of coffee and some homemade lemon drizzle cake that Mrs Reynolds served on pretty Emma Bridgewater plates. Mike Reynolds had been nice, she thought. Frowning hard as if to remember as much as he could, but all he’d said was that he had the impression the cycle had been a silver colour and that the rider had worn black. And maybe a hood. Looked like he was out on a training run, speeding along, bent low over the handlebars. Weird, though, at that time of night, wasn’t it? No lights, he’d added, his brow deeply furrowed. Strange, that, don’t you think? Yes, and Kate put it in her report. Cycling without lights on and not wearing the usual fluorescent gear. It was indeed strange. But not if the cyclist had been deliberately trying to conceal his presence at that particular time and in that particular place.
The budgetary constraints on Strathclyde police, like every other public body in the country, were such that acting Detective Superintendent Lorimer could no longer justify asking his old friend, Dr Solomon Brightman, to step into a case in an advisory capacity. It would take a series of high-profile murders before that was going to happen. Besides, the role of the psychologist in cases of serious crime was beginning to lose its appeal since what was perceived as a major blunder by a criminal psychologist south of the Border had led to the conviction of an innocent man. Solly had always been ready with his words of wisdom, sometimes taking a while to prepare a profile, but in previous cases it had been well worth an investigating team listening to what he’d had to say. But
